Baldur's Gate: The Novel – by Late to the Party
by Late to the Party
Summary: This is my character's journey through the epic saga that is Baldur's Gate. Here you will find adventure, drinking, romance and glorious battle. A true and full account sparing no detail. No AUing, no cheating, just the honest, raw truth. The saga begins!
1. Charina

**A/N: This is a full novelisation of my character's journey. No cheating, no AUing: just a true account of the game. Please note this is the EE version of the game, and therefore, things are simply wrong: for example, Winthrop charges 5,000 gold (if memory serves) in the original game whereas, in the EE version, inflation has caused this to rise to 10,000. Outrageous. However, I shall set personal bias aside and continue.**

Below are Charina's inventory and stats. I did not reroll these: I simply took the first set assigned. [Core rules]

* * *

Name: Charina (Pronounced as in 'Charlotte' and 'Tsarina': Char-rina.)

Sex: Female

Race: Human

Alignment: NG

Class: Mage: Enchanter

Starting spells: friends, infravision, identify

Memorisation: friends, infravision

Stats: (80)

Str: 12

Dex: 13

Con: 13

Int: 16

Wis: 9

Cha: 17

Proficiency: Sling (1)

HP: 4/4

[Starting] Inventory: quarterstaff

Appearance:

She has fair hair, fair skin, golden robes.

Biography: **_(A/N: this is copied word for word, including the typo for "pored")_**

_Inspired by your foster father's knowledge of the magical arts, you have made especially productive use of your library home. You have pored over the vast, if often inaccessible, treasury of magical lore and learned as much as you can. Gorion has been kind enough to instruct you in the basics, but he seems a touch overly concerned about your safety. You know, however, that experience could teach you so much more, and you yearn to travel as a journeyman mage._

_You know little of how you came to be a ward of Gorion's, but over the years you have gleaned something of your mother's tale from his vague allusions and from the words he sometimes uttered in tear-filled sleep. She was a human from Silverymoon and a friend of his for many seasons. As you have no memory of her, nor any keepsakes to remind you of her existence, you have come to believe that she died while giving birth to you. Perhaps it was the pain of such a parting that led Gorion to cloister himself within the narrow halls of Candlekeep and raise you as his own. Of your father, you have learned nothing._

* * *

**Prologue**

_Nestled atop the cliffs that rise from the Sword Coast, the citadel of Candlekeep ouses the finest and most comprehensive collection of writings on the face of Faerûn. It is an imposing fortress, kept in strict isolation from the intrigues that occasionally plague the rest of the Forgotten Realms. It is secluded, highly regimented, and it is home._

_Within these hallowed halls of knowledge, your story begins. You have spent most of your twenty years of life within this keep's austere walls, under the tutelage of the sage Gorion. Acting as your father, he has raised you on a thousand tales of heroes and monsters, lovers and infidels, battles and tragedies. However, one story was always left untold: that of your true heritage. You have been told that you are an orphan, but your past is largely unknown._

_Lately, Gorion has been growing distant from you, as if some grave matter weighs heavily on his heart. You have asked about his concerns as gently as possible, but your queries have been in vain. Your sole comfort is the knowledge that he is a wise man, and you will know he will tell you when the time is right. Nonetheless, his silence is troubling, and you cannot help but feel something is terribly wrong… _

_Today, Gorion has appeared more agitated than ever, and now he has uncharacteristically interrupted your chores in the middle of the day. Imparting hurried instructions for you to equip yourself for travel, he has handed you what gold he can spare, but given no clue as to why. Nevertheless, you now stand before the Candlekeep Inn, ready to purchase whatever you need for an unplanned and unexpected journey._

* * *

Day 0. Hour 7.

Journal

_Important Events:_

_Day 0, Hour 6 (2 Mirtul, 1368)_

_Gorion, my foster father, has informed me that we must immediately leave Candlekeep and set out on a journey. He has given me some gold, and I must purchase supplies for the road, including weapons and armour._

* * *

Charina shut her journal and examined her coin purse. 30 gold pieces! More money than she'd ever had in her entire life. Being good intentioned, she chose to enter the inn and see what there was to purchase as per Gorion's instructions. She needed supplies, including armour and weapons like her journal said. Would thirty gold really be enough? Gorion must think so or he wouldn't have given her that amount. What if she needed it down the road? Surely he couldn't intend her to spend all of it right away?

_Wait a minute!_ She thought to herself, _I can use my magic to make people like me! That's what I'll do. _

Taking a deep breath, she glanced this way and that but no one was about and if there was someone, Charina couldn't see them. Good enough. Uttering her spell, she felt the magic envelop her, and then she stepped inside.

A huge half-ogre of man, Winthrop, stood behind the counter. The Candlekeep Inn was well lit, with wooden planked floors, grey stone brick walls and some men in green hooded robes. But Charina had no time for that. She needed to see what Winthrop had to offer so she could venture forth and find Gorion. Time was of the essence!

Winthrop addressed her: "Well, hello there, young one! Come to visit your old pal Winthrop, have ye? Well, don't forget the 10,000 gold pieces book entrance fee, as per Candlekeep's custom, don'tcha know."

Charina did not know. Despite having studied at Candlekeep all these years, such a fee was a mystery and quite beyond her! Thirty pieces of gold would never cover that! Lowering her eyes, she felt her tummy sink. Her spell had no effect whatsoever, none. She was an utter failure. If Winthrop really was her 'old pal', he must know she could never afford such a fee. Had Gorion paid twenty thousand gold for both of them when he brought her to Candlekeep all those years ago? Where had he ever raised such a sum of money? If all he could give her was now thirty pieces, he must be destitute!

With a heavy heart, Charina replied with sinking shoulders in barely a whisper, her shame so great it twisted in the pits of her innards, "I fear I do not have that kind of entry fee with me. I suppose I shall return when I do."

The inkeep replied, "A charming child ye always were, but I fear ye lack the sense of humour your father and I shared. You must know that you are welcome here always. Stay as you will as long as ye like. So, is there anything I can do for ya? Some drinks, a room to sleep, or anything to buy?"

Those words crushed Charina, as if those huge meaty fists had pounded on her soul. How horrid. Why was he so mean? Always welcome maybe but after such a cruel and hurtful riposte. What had she done to deserve it? Eyes trailing along the floorboards (not literally), she mumbled, "Sure, what do you have?"

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing of use for her. How Winthrop had amassed such an arsenal was beyond her, but within this armoury was leathers, chain mail, and even splint mail but no one had trained her in how to wear any of it! Useless! Besides, it was far too expensive for her meagre purse. Her fists balled. Amongst the axes, polearms, halberds and swords, she realised that she was worse than useless. Her magic was a waste and now she had no money. Except… there was a dagger, but those were so short she might get hurt if she ever found herself that close to someone. Perhaps it was best to try a sling. She didn't want a quarterstaff: it was too tall, too heavy, and really, how could she fight? It was definitely better to use a sling. But the ammunition cost one gold a piece. One gold for twenty shot! How many would she need? Well, Gorion had told her to arm herself, so she had probably better get a sling and maybe… was sixty too many? That was four gold gone. Four whole gold. She didn't know how she could get more but she had to trust Gorion knew what he was doing.

26 gold left.

Maybe she should fortify herself with a stiff drink, a toast to Candlekeep before departing. Helm's beard! The prices! Blood Wine 8 gold (not that 'blood' sounded very nice…), Firewine 1 gold, Mead 4 gold, Bitter Black Ale 1 gold, Arabellan Dry Wine 2 gold. And she only had 26 gold left!

Well, she hadn't had anything to eat or drink that day. Winthrop had offered, hadn't he? Gorion wouldn't mind because if he did, Winthrop wouldn't be okay with it. Maybe Firewine wouldn't be so bad? Oh, that was tasty. Smooth, really smooth. And so small. Was that it, gone already? Maybe another wouldn't hurt? Okay then. One more. And… one sip empty? What kind of bar was this? Last one. Oh! Winthrop was saying something:

"Lots of trouble down in Nashkel. monsters or some such are said to be killing the works at the Nashkel mines. Bad news for smiths, or anyone that needs tools to make a living."

Well, wasn't that interesting? Oh, that had gone straight to her head. But she wanted to know more. Three more and nuthin'. Her magic really had failed. She was feeling a little woosy. She'd learnt almost nothing and now she was down to 17 gold. Oh no. What was she going to tell Gorion? She'd better think of a plan, fast.

With that, she quit the inn and Winthrop's company, wondering how surly he would have been if she hadn't cast her magic.

Outside the baleful sun cast its harsh gaze down upon her. In her heavy robes, it was just frightful. If it got worse, she'd be clammy and sticky and sweaty and icky and just gross. But if she was travelling, it could rain on her so she would need it. How strange Winthrop didn't offer a change of clothes or a tent or anything useful was quite beyond her. Her head was swimming. She really needed to lie down just for a minute. But where? Not the infirmary because Gorion would know and also that was much too far right now. What about… the bunkhouse! Yes! That was the place to be. With that thought firmly held, she took her first experimental step, then a second. She should not have ditched that quarterstaff in the umbrella section of the inn… too late now.

* * *

Fortunately there was no one around. Quiet, quiet, peaceful, perfect. Oh her head swam. It was like walking through the sea but in the air. Why had Winthrop let her drink so much? Some 'old pal' he was… this was probably his idea of a practical joke. Take her money, give her stupidly small shots, not even a pint let alone a quart…

Ugh, a Watcher and a hooded monk in green. Just keep calm, Charina, she thought. One foot in front of the other, wearing a smile, skip without skipping… Aha! The bunkhouse. The perfect place to rest. Okay! In she went.

There was someone else there. Hopefully he wouldn't see her. Nine hells, he spotted her and was moving her way.

"'Ere there. You're Gorion's little whelp, aren't ya? Yeah, you match the description. You don't look so dangerous to me."

What in the hells? How RUDE! Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew herself up. Match the description? What description? Little whelp? She'd give him little whelp! But using rudeness against rudeness wasn't going to get her anywhere. Something in the back of her mind stirred. Chilly politeness. That was the best way forwards. "And what business is that of yours?" She delivered. Gorion would be proud of her restraint.

"I'llmake it my business if'n I please. Just thought I'd have me a look at you for myself, before I puts a blade down your gullet! Someone seemsto think you're trouble, so I'm gonna use your head for a ticket out o' the gutter! I'm just a little street trash hood they say, but I'll show 'em!"

Rude! How did someone of his ilk even get into Candlekeep? Didn't it cost ten thousand gold? And what the – someone dared threaten her here? And – wait, what? Oh no no no. He was moving towards her with a dagger!

Run away! Charina thought, dashing for the door. Somehow the hoodlum got past her and was outside the door before she was and his dagger struck down. Searing pain! Unlike anything she'd ever felt before. As she lay on the ground, Charina stared and watched as her hand slowly began to break apart into golden dust.

…

* * *

Auto-Paused: Enemy Sighted.

Carbos: Attacks Charina

Carbos: Attack Roll 9 + 1 = 10 Hit

Charina: Takes 4 piercing damage from Carbos

Charina: Death

_The main character has been killed. You must restart the game. _

Alt f-4

_Are you sure you want to quit? Boo will miss you._

ALT F-4. QUIT! ! !


	2. Kharnaum

**A/N: Ahem.**

* * *

**Attempt 2**

Name: Kharnaum

Sex: Male

Race: Dwarf

Class: Dwarven Defender

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Stats: (79)

Str: 15

Dex: 12

Con: 16

Int: 9

Wis: 14

Cha: 13

Halberd: 2

Two-Handed Weapon: 2

Appearance: short. Grey-black attire, hair, grizzled features.

Biography:

_Drawn to the clamour of the forge at an early age, you have become quite skilled working for the monks of the keep, and have kept them supplied with whatever tools are occasionally required. Inspired by your foster father's tales of ironclad heroes, however, you know you would much rather swing a blade than a smithy's hammer. One of the Watchers has been kind enough to take you under her wing, and has trained you in the basics of the deadly arts. You yearn to leave the safe walls of your library home and venture forth along the Trade way, a trusty weapon at your side._

You know little of how you came to be a ward of Gorion's, but over the years you have gleaned something of your mother's tale from his vague allusions and from the words he sometimes uttered in tear-filled sleep. She was a dwarf from Mithral Hall and a friend of his for many seasons. As you have no memory of her, nor any keepsakes to remind you of her existence, you have come to believe that she died while giving birth to you. Perhaps it was the pain of such a parting that led Gorion to cloister himself within the narrow halls of Candlekeep and raise you as his own. Of your father, you have learned nothing.

* * *

**Prologue**

Nestled in the –

The party has gained 110 gold.

"Ye prices are outrageous! What kind o' fool do ye take me fer?! Stuff ye inn an' stuff ye company!" [translated into accented common].

"Ever the humourless brat ye always were! It's but for the reputation of your father that I give ye endless chances to redeem yer manner. I will tolerate ye here today, but bother me not."

Kharnaum sneered to himself. Had he not already said 'stuff ye company?' T'was he would have the last word!

And so, off strode he through the rain, for the discourse had ended, without any armour nor weapons. Pride cometh before the fall?

Past Phlydia, for what time did he have for a forgetful old hag, and past the cow – for what use did one such as he have for cows, round the fountain and past that girl in purple and straight to Gorion.

Thus spoke the aged sage in grey, "This is very unnerving, I know, but you must trust me. It is very important that you pack your possessions so that we may leave Candlekeep immediately. Hurry, for there is no time to tarry! The keep is well protected but not invulnerable."

As ye would have it, Kharnaum thought to himself. "I be ready ta leave right now."

With that, they were off. At the gates, Gorion paused long enough to revel a little of his plan. "Listen carefully! If we ever become separated, it is imperative that you make your way to the Friendly Arm Inn. There, you will meet Khalid and Jaheira. They have long been my friends, and you can trust them."

And so, Kharnaum left the sanctuary of his childhood home. Somewhere between Hour 6, leaving the gates, and journeying, darkness fell. Near some stone circles, Gorion uttered, "Let's hurry, child! The night get only get worse, so we must find shelter soon."

Then bursting out of the underbrush, a figure clad in iron appeared and spoke. "You're perceptive for an old man. You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist, it will be a waste of your life."

"You're a fool if you think I would trust your benevolence. Step aside and you and your lackeys will be unhurt."

"I'm sorry that you feel that way, old man."

Magic! Fighting! Death… pain! Ow!

"Run child, get out of here!"

Off Kharnaum went, obeying Gorion's last order.

* * *

Journal

_The dawn is especially cruel this morning. You awake with the realisation that you have not been living some horrid dream. Ambushed, you saw Gorion cut down before your eyes, and even his powerful magic could not stop the onslaught. It was his wish that you flee, but that does not remove the feeling of helplessness that now overwhelms you. "Hand over your ward," the armoured figure had said. He was after you and you alone, but why? If only Gorion had given some clue, but now you are alone and lost. Candlekeep is near, but you will find no quarter there. The readers pay for their serenity with rather draconian rules, and without Gorion's influence, their doors will remain closed._

_You will not last long on your own with your meagre equipment. Perhaps you can get some help from the friends Gorion mentioned, the ones at the Friendly Arm Inn._

[Kharnaum wondered why he was addressing himself in such a way, or how he had time to write in his journal, but write he did, in the second tense, which was grossly underused. More people should write in the second tense, he decided. It was just poetic.]

* * *

Chapter 1

Still pained, Kharnaum noted that annoying girl from Candlekeep coming towards him. Still dazed, and expecting her to gloat, he took off as fast as his stout legs would carry him. How could he face her or anyone else at this moment? Since she was coming towards him from Candlekeep, the only way left was the other directions: north, east, or south. South seemed the better choice, off the road, away from everyone. A chance to regroup, consider his choices, his desertion, formulate a plan.

He made it. The sun was back out unlike the previous day, and its cruel brightness seemed to mock him. There were trees and being a dwarf, where all the racial stereotypes applied, trees were only good for two things: fuel and forming the hafts of weapons, and maybe the beams for taverns, the bars, stools, barrels, and a whole host of other things, including the shafts of pickaxes and hammers, but mostly, trees were for do gooder prissy elves. This seemed just the sort of place a broody elf would lurk, Kharnaum thought to himself. Of course now he had to find his way to the Friendly Arm Inn. West it was. A few trees in, Kharnaum caught sight of a rather large and fine brown bear. It seemed pleasant enough and was minding its own business, so Kharnaum continued on his way, leaving the bear to its own devices.

Then out of nowhere, the bear attacked!

…

Auto-Paused: Enemy Sighted.

Brown Bear: Attack Roll 19 + 3 = 22 : Hit

Kharnaum: Takes 14 crushing damage from Brown Bear.

Kharnaum: Death

The main character has been killed. You must restart the game.


	3. Hecharna

**A/N: …**

* * *

**Attempt 3**

Name: Hecharna

Sex: Female

Race: Half Elf

Class: Fighter/Mage/Cleric

Alignment: Neutral Evil

Stats: (75) […]

Str: 15

Dex: 18

Con: 11

Int: 14

Wis: 11

Cha: 6

Mace: 2

Single-Handed Weapon: 2

Spells:

Wizard: find familiar*, sleep

Priest: armour of faith

Memorised: find familiar

[*EE content]

Appearance: Ugly; bitter; wrathful: all in her scowl. Blue tunic, red bracers, brown boots with golden laces, golden-brown belt, golden-brown armlets, golden-brown shoulder straps, dark hair with a silvery sheen in her centre, fair skin. Short, but not as short as a dwarf, gnome, or halfling.

Biography:

_Inspired by your foster father's loving tales, you have always dreamt of living the life of an adventurer, travelling the land by your wits and talents alone. The grounds of the keep were often the stage for many an imagined battle, much to the consternation of the monks that share your home. Companions your age being somewhat a rarity, you endured by playing every role yourself, a habit that has stayed with you as you entered adulthood. As Gorion used to advice you, 'A little bit of everything makes a better soup'._

_You know little of how you came to be a ward of Gorion's, but over the years you have gleaned something of your mother's tale from his vague allusions and from the words he sometimes uttered in tear-filled sleep. She was a half elf from the courts of Ashabenford and a friend of his for many seasons. As you have no memory of her, nor any keepsakes to remind you of her existence, you have come to believe that she died while giving birth to you. Perhaps it was the pain of such a parting that led Gorion to cloister himself within the narrow halls of Candlekeep and raise you as his own. Of your father, you have learned nothing._

* * *

**Prologue**

_Nestled in the –_

The party has gained 140 gold.

The Candlekeep Inn stood before Hecharna, and deciding that if indeed, Gorion was not lying about the journey and instead secretly planning to abandon her, or even if he was, perhaps it would be best to be well-armed for such a trip. That meant putting up with that windbag Winthrop, whom even Imoen, her 'friend', dubbed 'Puffguts'. So be it. She would put up with his lewd comments about her (half) elven 'arse' and his insistence that his 'hotel' was as clean as it. Given the state of the place, no doubt the old thief (for given the price of his drinks, how could he not be?), was implying that her hygiene was poor. Or perhaps he had a stirring for her? Either way, it concerned her little. All she must do is tolerate the old fool. A means to an end, and then she'd be rid of him.

10,000 gold entry fee?

"You always were the big kidder, Winthrop. That gets funnier nearly every time I hear it. Well, perhaps not quite so often." There, she even managed it without gritting her crooked teeth.

"I shall take no offence because of your esteemed parentage, but please refrain from making jest of me in my own home. Stay as long as you like. So is there anything I can do for ya. Some drinks, a room to sleep, or anything to buy?" Spoke he, the windbag innkeep.

Unbelievable, Hecharna thought; even when she was being pleasant and jovial, the denizens of this place still proverbially spat in her face. Still, pleasantries aside, she needed her gear. It was probably time she practiced that spell she'd learnt: perhaps she would finally gain a friend, aside from Imoen, who would care about her. Gear first, spell, then rest. Gorion could wait a while: after all, not even he was fool enough to leave outside of the cover of darkness.

Nine hells. 140 gold was nothing. Splint mail, the best that fat old lewd innkeep was offering, a helm, and no coin left for a mace. Well, she would see about that. Though her wizardry might be stunted in the bulky human mail, if she could find a suit from her elven side, perhaps she would be able to work the Art. Until then, it was best to remain ironclad. At least her priestly incantations, which merely required her to hold up Oghma's holy symbol and chant were possible in mail, human-wrought or otherwise.

Some might consider it odd that she would follow a god of knowledge given her temperament, but as the old saying went: knowledge was power. Besides which, what better place to accrue knowledge – and thus, power – than in a library, a library that housed the finest collection of works on the face of Faerûn, or so the blaggard monks boasted.

132 gold for the Splint Mail, 1 gold for the helm, 1 gold for a sling, 3 gold for 60 shot, and 3 gold for a room. She was left with nothing. Curse that fat Innkeep and his greed!

* * *

0 Gold.

* * *

Her room was sparse, not at all like the way the fat windbag described it: "A favourite of the frugal business traveller," said he, "basic but comfortable. A good, solid mattress and clean linen, for when must awaken presentable, but not so pampered as to promote oversleeping." What an absolute pompous ass. Still, it served her needs: a rug of purple, with a square pattern, linen drapes, a chest with a candle, two chairs and a bed that housed two. Pity she had no one she liked well enough to share it with.

A dust mephit. That was what the spell summoned and bound to her? A dust mephit. Useless. Utterly, utterly useless. And worse, if anyone saw it with her… she couldn't have attracted a nice rabbit, or a sprite, or a fäery dragon, oh no, she had to summon a hellspawn dust mephit.

Time to test her new armour.

* * *

HP 13/13.

AC 0 (-4 split, -4 Dex)

* * *

Well, she should rest, memorise a spell with more use. Perhaps run some chores, earn a bit of coin, and then, 'liberate' a few of the other guests' items; she and Gorion would be gone before anyone was the wiser. But wouldn't the finger point to her? Or would it be pointed towards Imoen… Imoen was a friend. Perhaps it would be best to see how much coin, piddling coin, her chores amounted to and make a decision after.

Maybe the dust mephit – henceforth known as… Dusty, would have something useless to offer. She doubted it though.

The impish creature regarded her with suspicion, wary of a kick or a slap before inching closer. "Yeah, boss? You want something?"

'Boss' was not the term Hecharna would have chosen. 'My lady', perhaps, if they were going to be as formal as that, if she was now the mistress of this little creature. "Don't be so frightened of me, idiot." Petting it, she smiled.

Dusty's reaction was to dart away, dancing the 'heebie-jeebie' with the parting shot, "Oh, now I'm a cute little bunny? Give me a break, boss."

That did it. Hecharna's hand shot out and slapped it across the ears.

"HeeEEYY! Cripes! What wuz that for?! I did everything you told me to, boss! Sheesh, some people…"

Her hand aimed its back at its mouth, but the little mephit ducked. "Nyah! Thhhppppfffttt! You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn! You suck!" Dashing away before a third blow could land its find its mark, it stuck its tongue out.

Hecharna darkened, then shrugged. Then she snatched the creature out of the air. "Get in my pack,"

"Oh sure," it rolled its eyes. "Stick me in your smelly pack. Ever thought of sticking some mint in there? Baaaah…"

Choosing to abstain from commenting, Hecharna nevertheless considered what life would be like now. Since it was bound to her, harming it would harm herself and that meant she was stuck with it. As she passed through the hall leading to the stairs, she noted a few coins sitting out on the dresser. With no one around, she chose to seize the moment.

* * *

+4 gold. 22 total.

* * *

Then she noted there was a drawer in the room beside that was only half locked. One good shove… and a silver necklace found its way into her purse. Maybe she could strangle Dusty with it if she ever had enough of him.

Back downstairs, she noted Winthrop's back was turned; there were other patrons, but they were busy in the other rooms, and so, she snuck across the hall, noted the fat innkeep's lockbox and gave it a shove. Like the one upstairs, it was rickety and spilt its contents. Spell scrolls!

Spell scroll of: Armour, Infravision

Perhaps they could fetch her some coin at another later, establishment. Folding and stuffing them in the gusset of her unmentionables, she knew no one would dare to look there. Things were looking up.

Then, as she snuck back across the hall, one 'Firebead Elvenhair' accosted her with a chore, blabbering something about an 'Iron Crisis' and how he was back in Candlekeep. At least he knew who she was. The old elf wanted her to fetch him a scroll from another old fool. _But you know, _Hecharna thought_, I might just pocket this spell scroll too. _

Before she left, she realised she had enough for that mace, and so it found its way into her possession.

* * *

-13 gold. Total: 9 gold

* * *

Phlydia flagged her down and demanded to know if Hecharna had seen her book; why in Oghma would she know where the old bat had left it? A book in a library… well, she promised she'd keep an eye out for it since Phlydia claimed she'd be 'ever so grateful' for its return. More coin? Perhaps. Hecharna reckoned she had perhaps time for one sweep of the keep, perhaps two, before Gorion would insist they left. Still, it was only the fifteenth hour. Along the way, Dreppin waved her over and claimed he knew where Phlydia's book was; in exchange for this little titbit, he wanted her to go and find that oaf Hull and collect an antidote for Dreppin's stupid cow. That last part was literal, as Dreppin had no hopes of ever finding a mate. Not even a hobgoblin would take him, Hecharna thought bitterly, but her ears had pricked at the word 'antidote'. Something else to leave with.

Then Jondalar and Erik decided they would prank her with some 'training practice' and had the audacity to jump her! Well, she showed him.

* * *

Hecharna: Attack Roll 20 + 5 = 25 Hit

Hecharna: Critical Hit

Erik: Takes 24 crushing damage from Hecharna

Hecharna: Attacks Jondalar

Hecharna: Attack Roll 14 + 1 = 15 Hit

Jondalar: Takes 8 crushing damage from Hecharna

* * *

_That'll teach them,_ Hecharna thought grimly, a small flash of satisfaction flooding through her. _Spawn of she-dogs and halflings._

And then there was Reevor. _Kill your own damn rats,_ Hecharna thought but at the last second, held her tongue. She did need the coin. Maybe this was what it was to be a harlot: to sell oneself. Instead, she smiled through her crooked teeth and disjointed nose. Eight solid swings later, five of which connected, and five dead rats lay at her feet. Not a scratch on her. Maybe she should have been smarter about this and realised rats could have been diseased, but it was too late now. Glinting in the corner was a ring which, when she bit into it, gave enough that she suspected it was as silver as the necklace she obtained.

Five gold for her trouble. One gold piece per rat head wasn't actually that bad of a deal. Now if only there were more rats and more time…

* * *

\+ silver ring. +5 gold. Total: 14 gold.

* * *

A few paces south found Hull. Hull, who had some _very_ interesting things to say. He had forgotten his sword… what trouble would he be in if the Gatewarden caught him without it. The price of a few coins or the satisfaction of knowing Hull was in for a drubbing? No, Hull would probably blame her. Son of a goat that he was. Still, he'd get it in the neck. Coin was worth more, sadly. Tethtoril across the courtyard with Firebead's scroll. Yes, she would pocket that.

Imoen – cryptic, cryptic Imoen. Asked if she wanted to tag along; she said no, since Gorion would object._ Oh well,_ Hecharna thought with an inner sigh.

Perhaps the infirmary might have something for Dreppin's cow as well… As it so happened, one of the Oghmite priests did! Ha! Another little 'souvenir'. She would be glad to see the back of this place.

In the barracks, Fuller, Hull's bunkmate – as far as she was concerned – wanted some bolts for his crossbow, and promised to reimburse her. Snagging Hull's sword and the antidote, she agreed. Book to Phlydia, bolts for Fuller, sword for Hull and then Gorion. As chores went, not too bad. The silver ring went for two gold, which frankly, was pathetic in her opinion, but she could hardly expect Winthrop to give her a good deal. Ten gold from Fuller, ten from Hull – and a barrage of insults.

"Took your sweet time, didn't you?" Hull blathered. "Gorion's a fool for trying to bring you up right and you can tell him I said so, too."

Hecharna was this close to retorting that Winthrop would have given her seven gold for the sword but she chose not to. Hull would get his because if there really was an Iron Crisis, his drinking would see him forget his sword and she wouldn't be there to bail him out. When that happened, he'd rue the day he was a pig's behind.

With all that, she headed to Gorion and off into the great big world.

* * *

Inventory: (final)

35 Gold, 'Dusty', scroll: armour, infravision, identify, silver necklace, x1 potion of healing, x1 antidote


	4. Chapter 1, part 1

**Chapter 1**

**Part I**

"I'm ready to go right now." –

…

_The dawn –_

…

"Heya, it's me, Imoen!"

So, her friend did tag along after all. Hecharna welcomed her with open arms, tried not to think about how helpless she felt as Gorion bade her to flee, nor how Gorion never came after her. She wasn't going back to the stone circles; who knew what might be lurking there, that, and she didn't care to see his mangled body. She was left with his last instruction: the Friendly Arm Inn, but what if someone had overheard him? Maybe it would be better to head somewhere else, instead? After all, the armoured man and his lackeys had been there waiting for them… Gorion had even called it an ambush!

What did Dusty think, she wondered?

Imoen added to the stash: a total of three healing potions, an oil of speed, and a wand of magic missiles and a paltry two gold pieces. That was the best she looted from Candlekeep? Oghma give her wisdom… forcing a smile, Hecharna decided to head towards the town of Beregost. Perhaps they could find supplies there, and more importantly, work. Their meagre thirty-seven gold pieces wasn't going to pay for board and lodgings for very long and now she had three mouths to feed instead of two. Imoen had better earn her keep, she thought grimly.

Along the road she met two more: a halfling and a man in green. They clearly needed her assistance, so they attempted to bribe her, then begged she take them with her. Well, Hecharna saw no harm in having two more shields, and she could always drop them in Beregost. Assuming they didn't cut her throat in her sleep. Better to have such characters where she could keep an eye on them instead of skulking around outside her line of sight? Imoen was a much smoother talker but she was far more naïve, so Hecharna led her aside and let her what was what. Imoen had wanted to join her, therefore, Hecharna, not Imoen, called the shots. Otherwise she knew where the road was.

Xzar and Montaron contributed ten coin to the pot and added a destination: Nashkel. Nashkel seemed a little out of her way, but perhaps out of the way was best until she could get her bearings. And Imoen seemed excited to venture out. And so, it was decided. Beregost, then Nashkel. And if something happened to her comrades along the way, that was on them, not her, with Imoen being the exception. For now.

[…]

In passing, Xzar mentioned a place named 'High Hedge', whereby a local mage of some renown resided. A mage that might have trinkets for sale. Since it was a little ways east of Beregost, she agreed. It meant passing through some trees, but with Montaron leading the way, a better scout she had yet to find.

They met their first forest foe, a wolf, but between Hecharna's mace and Montaron's blade, it fell swiftly. Hardly worth mentioning, Hecharna commented in passing as they entered a clearing of blue and yellow flowers between the autumnal hued trees. It was at that point Dusty chose to stick his head out, both fascinating and revolting Imoen and intriguing Xzar. A few swift slaps put the Mephit back in its place, and she pulled the cords tight, daring any of them to ask over the tip of her still-bloodied mace. The wolf fur had matted on it.

A few paces south and there it was, an octagonal, turreted keep with dual stairwells leading to an impressive double door. It certainly fit the part of a mage's tower, Hecharna noted and allowed Xzar to enter first. It was, after all, his idea.

[…]

Inside was a man who identified himself as Thalantyr, after more or less telling them to 'get off his lawn', though pausing to add that if they wished to purchase his trinkets they could do so. A strange way of doing business, Hecharna decided, but who knew what kind of door knockers the man got.

Well, there was nothing they could afford but he did have some very interesting items, items Hecharna would return for later. A pity they weren't able to simply take them, but being a mage, there were no doubt wards and defences and all manner of magical traps awaiting foolish thieves. She wasn't going to try her luck, and since Montaron had been seen with her, she wasn't going to let him, or Xzar, try their luck either. At least, not until it was clear they'd distanced themselves adequately from her.

[…]

Outside, a band of gnolls ambushed them. Clearly, they had got this down to an art: wait for the foolish to enter High Hedge, then take their money and their lives. Or maybe they were just Thalantyr's pets. The man didn't seem like the type to concern himself with what occurred outside his home, so probably not. Beating a retreat back inside the mage's home, the gnolls had the audacity to follow them in.

It was at that point that Imoen took a halberd to the face. It was over before she knew it. Three of their ambushers fell almost at once, one to Xzar's strangely crimson spell, the second to Hecharna's mace, and the third to Montaron's blade. Oh Imoen, Hecharna sighed. Still, there was nothing to be done. Poor girl. Choking back her tears, Hecharna held her friend's bloodied corpse, then gently laid it by a tree. She performed the rites, borrowed a shovel from Thalantyr, and set her childhood friend to rest.

Her eyes dared Montaron to object, and her mace dared Xzar's long, looming fingers to touch Imoen. Even if there was a priest able to return her, they had no coin for it. Perhaps Thalantyr had something to preserve the body, something that would keep it…? The man did not and all but threw them from his home.

And so, with a heavy heart, Hecharna bade goodbye to the last link to her childhood. In the span of two days, she had lost her home, her mentor, and now her friend. Someone was trying to kill her and she had no clue as to why and now it had cost her Imoen. Wrapping her in a sheet, she committed her to the ground, praying the wolves would not find her.

Then, washing her hands in the stream, they continued to Beregost.


	5. Chapter 1, part 2

**Chapter 1**

**Part 2**

[…]

Outside, a black bear, angered by the gnolls, lay in wait, and with one swipe, struck Montaron, just after he had quaffed the healing potion. Even with its restorative magics, a single blow had laid the halfling low. Then, out of nowhere, while the black bear was still on its rampage, an animated skeleton appeared from the underbrush, and as Hecharna cut west, a gnoll jumped out. Enough was enough and yelling to Xzar to run, Hecharna dashed west, putting as much distance between her attackers and herself.

By the time they reached the coast, they were near exhaustion. Xzar was bleeding from the skeleton's flung dagger, and all that remained was whether or not to venture back and claim Montaron's body, as well as the loot that was on it.

Another skeleton. It was a close thing, but Hecharna prevailed… with the killing blow coming from Xzar's dagger as the pommel shattered the already cracked bones. Whatever magic animating it failed and it collapsed. Then, despite the danger, they made camp: what else was there to do?

As they backtracked searching for the body, they encountered a little cottage. By now, the night had swallowed the forest and the cheery glow from the windows, the stream of smoke from the chimney, was more welcome than anything Hecharna could have asked for. Of course, they were jumped by another skeleton, but this time, her mace cracked it with a single swing, and a huge spider gave chase. The area was crawling with those seeking blood! As they cut towards Beregost, they were sighted by an elf, an elf by the name of Kivan; at this point, Hecharna did not care what anyone's personal quest was, providing they could help with the spider, and so, Kivan enlisted. She chose not to mention their recent fallen: might be bad for morale.

Kivan's bow, with a little bit of help from the flung daggers and sling felled the huge spider, and then, to the northeast, they spied a brown bear. Hecharna chose to steer clear of it: whether it was minding its own business or not, she had no wish to tempt fate further.

[…]

Returning to Montaron's remains, Hecharna looked on while Xzar picked through the trinkets murmuring to himself and tracing Montaron's slender fingers. Kivan, fortunately, stood at some distance keeping watch, allowing them to 'pay their respects'. A sad state of affairs.

Another gnoll lurked nearby, the very same that blocked their route west after Montaron fell. An arrow through the eye put an end to it, and for now, at least, the region was clear. Or so Hecharna believed. It was time to move on.

[…]

She barely had time to inquire about her companions and after the events of last night, Hecharna really did not wish to. What was the point in knowing someone if they might fall from a single blow? None of Gorion's tales had gone that way. She felt cheated, lied to. She wanted to go home.

In the fifth hour of the fourth day, they entered the outskirts of Beregost. Desperate for any refuge, any shelter, she headed towards Firebead Elvenhair's home, a house he had described now and then as being opposite Feldepost's Inn. Perhaps there would be aid to be found there?

Hecharna was bloodied, tired, filthy, with blood, innards, and mud on her boots and mail, with only healing potions having kept her in one piece. Xzar was about the same, with only Kivan seemingly untouched. Elves and their bows. She felt an intense and growing dislike for him, but his bow had saved them, so she couldn't be too ungrateful. Besides, he had lost someone too, from what she understood, and now sought vengeance against a bandit named 'Tazok'. So be it. She sought vengeance too. Perhaps they could share vengeance together, or perhaps he would be cleft in two by some monster.

Firebead was of little use. Somehow, he had heard of Gorion's death, offered his condolences and an errand. Charity seemed to be too much for him, or perhaps it was too awkward. He did not even offer the use of his home, only that he would provide a bonus if Hecharna fetched him a tome. The fury within her rose, and she wanted to vent her frustration on the old mage, but she could not do that to a friend of Gorion, that, and she was no murderer. Perhaps there would be others she could find to journey with. She might have to swing by the Friendly Arm and find Gorion's friends, in spite of the risk. Beregost did little in offering safe haven. As a town, it was a mishmash of houses, all facing different directions, all jumbled together, mostly two, occasionally three storeys. Plaster walls, beams, slanting tiled roofs, cobbled streets; it was what she expected. But what choice did she have? She could continue or find herself at the mercy of the town; it seemed unlikely Firebead would take her on as an apprentice; there were no Oghamite shrines nearby, far as she knew, and she had yet to see any of the town watch. Who would let her in anyway? What did that leave? A smithy that might not hire her, when she had few skills to offer; waiting tables, and… her body. Would it really come to that? Gods, she hoped not. Maybe the local inn had job postings, perhaps a bounty of some sort? She tried to ignore the harlots that decorated its gateposts and blew kisses at them.

[…]

"'Ere now, get out. I don't like your type in here!"

Gods, what was it _now_? Wheeling around, Hecharna found herself face to face with a drunk. His idiot friend identified and encouraged him. 'Marl'.

"Hey, I told you to get lost! Ain't no room here for ye troublemakin' strangers!"

And that was the proverbial straw. Drawing herself up, Hecharna rounded on the drunk and informed him through gritted teeth she'd go where she pleased. Marl swung at her; she swung back. His fist, her mace. It was in that moment the shoddy weapon she purchased from Winthrop broke, which was perhaps for the best, as the two of them battered each other with fists alone. It was at that moment that Marl's wild swing struck Xzar and the trio went down in a tumble that lasted for much, much longer than it ought. Kivan let them get it out of their system, and eventually, Hecharna walked away, having both been beaten black and blue and beating Marl even bluer. Yet, she still wasn't a murderer and using a weapon against an unarmed man was perhaps too far; at first, she believed he was coming at her with a dagger, but then when her mace broke she saw otherwise.

Returning to Firebead saw one tome exchanged for another, and some cryptic hint that Hecharna was in no mood for. Time to find a better inn and rest up. Perhaps the Jovial Juggler? That was the other tavern Firebead was always on about.

-3 gold. 53 gold total.

Accosted by a surly dwarf, Gurke, who was rambling about some lost cloak; accosted by Bjornin, a paladin who had his posterior handed to him by half ogres and wanting someone else to take revenge for him – coward; the Jovial Juggler, seemed to Hecharna about the same as the other two inns she'd been in, one of them being Feldepost, the other Candlekeep. Were all the taverns this way? More to the point, why should she care if they weren't offering her coin for their dirty work?

"If you could give them a taste of justice, that would do me proud." Said Bjornin.

Proud? Proud didn't foot the bill for healing potions. Proud didn't foot the bill for inns. Proud wouldn't bring back Imoen. He could take his 'proud' and stuff it up a goat, and himself with it.

And then there was Garrick. Garrick who actually offered pay for services rendered. Garrick who escorted Hecharna to his rude mistress who quite clearly needed taking down a few pegs and thought she could use Hecharna as her muscle in a business deal. How stupid did she think Hecharna was?

But before Garrick was Kagain, Kagain a dwarf with a temper so sour he made other surly dwarves look cheerful. In search of weapons, namely, a new mace, Hecharna stumbled into his store only to find it was a business for hiring mercenaries. Was she interested? Was she ever! Finally, a job that might see her paid enough that she wouldn't have to think about last resorts. Xzar would have to wait a while because there was no way the three of them were braving the road to Nashkel without more shields. Companions. Whatever.

While Kagain was yammering on about 'whiners' and some son of an Entar Silvershield, Hecharna nodded here and there, her mind already counting the coins. But then came the rub: a share of the bounty. No upfront pay, no promise of pay. Still, another shield arm was useful, and so, off they trekked, meeting Garrick along the way… but since Kagain was distracted, and heading to the front door, Hecharna took it upon herself to inspect the unlocked till drawer. Very foolish.

[…]

* * *

Five fire agates and almost 200 gold. Total gold: 260.

* * *

And so it was, outside the Red Sheaf Inn, Hecharna, Xzar, Kivan, and Kagain stood, Hecharna still without a mace and only a sling; Xzar with his dagger and throwing knives; Kivan with his bow, and Kagain with his axe. It was beginning to resemble something out of a ballad, Hecharna inwardly noted.

Silke crossed a line when she dropped the offer to two hundred gold, Hecharna decided, and that sealed her fate. When her business partners showed up and Silke ordered the strike, claiming that one was 'a mage whose mystic words can sway even the most wise of men'. Because that wasn't cause for concern at all. Naturally, Silke turned on Hecharna the second her little scheme was outed; naturally, Kivan's bow sang and Kagain's axe swung; Xzar's curious magic struck each time Silke began intoning and Hecharna's slingshot put an end to the witch's miserable life.

* * *

+400 gold, a quarterstaff, and a potion. Total gold 660.

* * *

With nowhere else to go, Garrick begged and pleaded to join. With Imoen's memory still fresh in her mind, but also knowing what it was to be cast out and alone, Hecharna allowed the boy in, knowing that it was probably to his doom. Still, another shield was always handy. Feldepost's 'thugs' were grateful, though not grateful enough in Hecharna's opinion. After that, a drink was in order… and as the Red Sheaf Tavern was right on their doorstep, or more accurately, they were right on its, why not?

* * *

Total: 702 gold

* * *

A bounty notice… Hecharna writhed with inner fury. She was quick enough to conceal it in her vambrace before any of her companions noted it; Kivan was too busy searching the crowd for any other would be assailants. That an assassin would strike here… it was her the dwarf was seeking, but perhaps, if she was fortunate, the others would think the dwarf was after one of them. No one said anything though.

When she had first laid eyes on the dwarf, she had a sick vision of Kivan being split in two, Kagain gutted, Garrick eviscerated, leaving only her and Xzar before falling before the dwarf's axe and Xzar following. Fortunately, that vision never came to pass and her journey continued. But she decided she would be more careful about entering taverns in the future, for who knew who else might be lurking there? Perhaps she needn't have worried as Kagain stood his ground, Kivan stood his, and between all five of them, the dwarven assassin went down with only minor injuries. After all, there were five of them.

As they ventured up to their room, Hecharna found herself accosted by a halfling by the name of Perdue. It turned out she was not the only one to be ambushed by gnolls near High Hedge. Fifty gold for the return of the halfling's stolen sword; it went without saying that the gnolls would join Imoen. That seemed worth somewhat more than Kagain's caravan, but perhaps it would be better to swing by on the way back and head to Nashkel. But first, the smithy!

* * *

-3 gold, total 693.

* * *

[…]

* * *

**[A/N: We ran into Neera – but because I'm not playing the EE content (familiar aside), she doesn't get to stay. So we'll pretend she never existed.]**

* * *

Unfortunately, it was hour 0, Day 6, and the Thunderhammer Smithy was empty. So Hecharna made the executive decision to return later, in the hopes that her decision to abide by only blunt implements, when the party wielded halberds and axes, swords and daggers, was not a mistake she would later rue. The search for Kagain's caravan continued.

Heading north, there was a broken caravan, a dead horse and three human corpses, and two xvarts, ugly short blue creatures that soon joined those they presumably had slain.

* * *

+10 gold.

* * *

"Well, look what I found. This is the body of Silvershield's son. Guess I'm in a lot of trouble now. With him dead, I'll be a wanted dwarf. From what I've gathered so far, all of you are after them damnable bandits. Well, since my reputation is now mud how 'bout I help you gain revenge on those scumbags?" Spoke Kagain.

A wanted dwarf? Hecharna inwardly questioned. Did she really need another target on her back? Then again, Kagain was present for that dwarf in the inn and probably guessed she was the mark. And he was a strong axe-hand. The road south was probably going to be at least as treacherous as High Hedge, so watching her promised payday slip away, Hecharna agreed. Time to retrieve Perdue's sword, then the Smithy, then the southern road.

* * *

+1 silver ring, 1 fire agate.

* * *

In the quest to avenge Imoen, Hecharna found a talking chicken. Rather than soil her own pack, and risk Dusty eating it, she handed it off to Garrick. A beautiful friendship was formed that day. The chicken, a polymorphed mage's apprentice by the name of Melicamp, and an apprentice bard.

Due south of Melicamp was Bassilus… mad, deranged, necromantic cleric who thought he could replace his dead family with monstrosities. If it were that simple, Hecharna thought bitterly, she would have replaced Imoen with a walking corpse. Of course such a fight left them reeling, ravaged and bleeding, but no one died. Her visions of seeing her comrades slaughtered amounted to nothing, which was just as well really.

With Xzar whining about wanting to visit Nashkel and uttering some sort of veiled threat about not liking him while he was tense, Hecharna conceded and gave up the search for Perdue's sword – and Imoen's killers.

* * *

+7 gold

* * *

Two gibberlings dared to block her path and ended up with the wounds she wished to visit upon the gnolls. Nearby, there was a family of three, murdered. The flies buzzed around them in a cloud.

Finally, after a long trek led by Kivan across country, a few xvarts, some gnolls, three wild dogs, and a couple of horrific visions of carnage, Nashkel finally stood in sight.

* * *

Gold 753.

Inventory: lots to sell.


	6. Chapter 2, part 1

**Chapter 2**

_With your hurried flight from Candlekeep barely behind you, the troubles facing the Sword Coast seem an unfamiliar blur to your fractured nerves. Gorion would not have you sit idle, however, and perhaps investigating local concerns will shed some light on your own predicament. How the iron shortage or the trouble in the Nashkel mines could possible be linked to you, you have no idea._

* * *

That should shut Xzar up at least, Hecharna decided as they entered the invisible boundary line of the top. But the first thing they needed to do was offload all their loot, make some coin, and probably hit the inn but knowing her luck there'd be another assassin there. Still she had more money than she'd ever seen in her life but divided five ways didn't leave her with much. It was a good thing she never promised to split the pot: if anything, she had made it quite clear that they were indebted to her, not the other way around. Xzar needed an escort; Kivan wanted revenge, Garrick was a poor stray waif in need of guidance, Kagain was taking shelter and aiding in Kivan's revenge, and that just left Melicamp, who was also in their debt.

And there it was: disrespect, again. Berrun Ghastkill, mayor of Nashkel.

"I recognise Xzar among you, so you must be the group I was expecting. Welcome to Nashkel. I am Berrun Ghastkill, the mayor. If you are here to help, you will be treated well, but I expect no treachery on your part."

Hecharna inwardly rolled her eyes. Was she expected to keep bowing and scraping, to smile prettily through her crooked teeth? What was it about her that just earnt such enmity? So she inquired about the cost of their trouble.

"Concerned about nothing but what is in it for you? I should have expected no less. So be it. We need the Nashkel mines secured. Miners are going missing and the ore we do retrieve is tainted somehow. The town guards are busy enough with bandit raids, so we need you to tackle whatever is underground. The town can give you a reward of 900 gold pieces. We are a small community and that is all we can afford. Please, go now and do what you can."

Nine hundred gold a few days ago would have sounded like a small fortune. But nine hundred divvied between five was much less. One-eighty a head. Not that she was going to share. But she highly doubted that was all the town could afford and if they were truly going to fob her off then she was going to take what was rightfully hers. That was the only way she was going to survive.

Upon reaching the store with a bundle of halberds, two-hander swords, Hecharna made an interesting discovery: she had indeed taken Perdue's sword, and thus, avenged Imoen. All gnolls looked the same to her, but the knowledge didn't sate her: she desired more, much, much more. A few gnolls were not enough. She was going to butcher every gnoll she found, like they had butchered her friend. And not just gnolls. Xvarts, gibberlings, wolves, everything that had dared oppose them, everything that had caused them pain and grief, and those which had taken Imoen would become a forgotten species once she was through with them.

The vile merchant bought the halberds for two gold a piece, the two handers and crossbows for twelve gold a piece. While in need of a bit of care, Hecharna seethed at the mark-up the merchant sold those very same blades for: fifteen for a halberd, _seventy-five_ for a two-hander and the same for a crossbow. If Imoen were still here, she would have robbed the store blind. Well, there would be a reckoning for the man's greed. 'Only afford nine hundred gold'. She would cost the town a whole lot more than that.

As it was, a couple of words in Garrick's ear convinced him to 'liberate' the plated mail in the store – how they would smuggle that out, she wasn't entirely sure. Certainly not in her gusset but liberate it Garrick did. For 'study', she told him, to test the effects of the dissolving iron. Perhaps that was what happened to her mace back in Feldepost. Part of her wished Imoen had been there to stop her; mostly, she just wished it was Imoen there now. She would have gotten along well with Garrick, Hecharna suspected. The horrific truth was that now they might have enough coin, if they could find a cleric capable. The same could be true of Entar Silvershield's son, but Kagain clearly had no interest in hauling around a dead body and neither did anyone else, and besides, even if Entar Silvershield had offered a reward, he might also have strung them up. Hard to say.

A few moments on, and Garrick liberated the second suit of plated armour. The store owner must have been near sighted, but since he didn't seem to notice, and Garrick forged his handwriting to say 'sold' in front, as were a couple of other pieces, they made their exit. After snagging Kivan a new bow, of course.

* * *

Gold total: 1055

* * *

**A/N: of course while I am aware of a certain green plate mail hidden in a certain hole; our 'heroine', however, is not. Onto the mines!**


	7. Chapter 2, part 2

**Chapter 2, Part 2**

_Damn Kagain and his need for ale,_ thought Hecharna, _I was right about would-be assassins lurking in inns! 680 gold for my head! Whoever is doing this will rue the day their mother gave birth to them!_

Upon recovering her energies at the inn, for she and her compatriots were healthy in body, Hecharna identified the hammer they had taken off of Bassilus. A weapon that struck lightning! Since she had been without a mace for far too long, she claimed the hammer, despite not really knowing how to wield one to its full effect. Practice made perfect?

It hadn't escaped Hecharna's notice that her particular band was just a little light on those versed in the healing arts, not to mention being unable to disarm a trap. Imoen could have, she thought bitterly, but where could she find another Imoen? If only she could teach Dusty. Why couldn't she have got a better familiar? Well, she was going to teach the damned critter to be useful. Why couldn't she have got a nice cat, or even a ferret? Well if Dusty proved to be too slow, stubborn, or useless, she would unbind the magic and summon another, and this time, she'd make sure she got her ferret. Besides what kind of Oghamite would she be if she couldn't even teach an imp, mephit, or whatever Dusty was, to spring a simple lock? Imoen had told her the basics but Hecharna had never quite got the hang of it. Now Dusty better had, for his sake. And while she was at it, she was going to learn everything he knew for herself too. After all, knowledge was power.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so I know I said no cheating but thematically, the 'evil' dream fits Hecharna much, much better, so I'm temporarily dropping the party rep from 10 to 6. I'm also tweaking Dusty to do more than just sit in Hecharna's pack all the time. Cheating? Maybe. Still, unlike Baldur's Gate, ADnD allows spells to be researched and learnt by mages. In this case, theme over rules. Raw, honest truth!**

* * *

While she was mulling over this, Hecharna decided it was time to quit the tavern and check the mine. After all, they were fully stocked, and while she never relished the idea of resting around strangers, especially as she was the only girl present, which was something that only just dawned on her; she registered it, but it hadn't really clicked until that moment, she doubted anyone would try anything. Garrick was far too shy and would probably offer her flowers, get his heart broken and run into the woods tears streaming down his eyes and get eaten by a bear… Kagain might but he seemed too morose and focused on his own misery and lack of coin; Kivan was far too vengeance driven, and honestly, she was grateful for his brooding presence. It cast a shadow over the entire party and it was unlikely anyone would try crossing him and she doubted he'd allow anyone to try something with her. She would just have to keep smiling at the elf, endearing herself while allowing his grimness to silence everyone's cheer. Everyone's but Garrick's, that was. And as for Xzar, well, he was so socially awkward that he was the most likely candidate to try something but at the same time, what he'd try would probably be examining her delicate bone structure and slender tipped ears and murmur something about 'dissection'. Creep.

It was a nice balance, Hecharna decided. Not the sort she would have chosen but it just sort of happened. Whether or not they'd remain alive was another matter entirely, but she'd see. Now if she could only find some more work, they – she – be set.

A mere few paces was all it took for her wish to be granted; were it only so that all desires were so swiftly and easily delivered. Upon a bridge stood a man in red robes, a man who muttered. It was not ideal but a job was a job. Unfortunately…

"(Hm, not the best specimens, but perhaps a more 'bestial touch' is what my plan requires.). I would hire you to kill a treacherous enemy. Understand? She Dynaheir. She bad. You kill. Stomp your foot once for yes, twice for no."

Enemies was something Hecharna could well understand; after all, had not bounty hunters been tasked with her own demise? It was for that very reason she hesitated. She was no assassin. The man, beneath his heavily embroidered cowl, held a sharp-featured face with a trim moustache and goatee, a tiara with a gem of some description, and gems on his bracers, and rings on his fingers. Well dressed, arrogant, aloof and unable to do his own dirty work; why, he must be a noble.

Naturally the question she returned was how much the job would pay.

"The prize I offer would surely be beyond measure in your meagre understanding. Either take the job or not!"

Unwilling to answer? Well, Hecharna had had enough of this particular brand of attitude: after all, Kagain now tagged along because he couldn't pay up. Perhaps this fool would be the same? Still, she pressed.

"Why would you have this woman dead? Am I to kill her without knowing?"

"Frankly, yes. It is no concern of yours. You need but perform the act with no questions. What is your answer?"

Hecharna considered for a moment. Once they found this woman, she could find out more. Perhaps a bidding war would commence. Perhaps more would be revealed along the way. Her meagre funds of only a thousand gold would only stretch so far. Very well.

"Of course you will; it is as expected. (I will lead them to her and she cannot hope to prevail.) I will travel with you until the deed is done. Last I heard of her, she was travelling to the west of Nashkel, close to the gnoll stronghold located there."

That wasn't part of the arrangement, Hecharna inwardly noted, but another shield would not go amiss. So be it. Besides, a gnoll stronghold? That sounded perfect. Her eyes darkened and for the first time in a long while, a true smile twisted at the edges of her mouth, a smile that was on the verge of a sneer, and murderous fury held her gaze. She no longer cared about this 'woman' but the gnolls? She would eliminate every last one of them and leave their stronghold a crumbling ruin.

[…]

Along the way to the mines, within a narrow gorge, a band of six hobgoblins ambushed them. Garrick was one hair away from death, Kagain was wounded, and during the battle, both Kagain and Kivan were rendered unconscious by Edwin's spell. Hecharna decided she needed to have a word with him about that. Their lack of healing was beginning to show. At this rate, she'd be down half her shields before they even entered the mine.

With that, she decided the best thing to do was find a decent spot to rest and hope everyone got along without bickering.

* * *

_Journal_

_Day 13, Hour 20_

_I have arrived at the impressive pit known as the Nashkel mines, and people seem to be on edge. I should speak with the owner of the mines for permission before attempting to enter._

* * *

Hecharna let the journal slap shut. It had never been her strength and she wasn't entirely sure what the point of it was. Maybe Garrick could devise a song about it, something that would be sung in the taverns and gain them fame – and with fame, fortune. Fortune being coin, of course. The sooner she was shot of this hovel the better. She'd not seen a functional bathhouse, let alone a latrine flushed with running water since Candlekeep. Surely, Beregost must have one somewhere? Probably in those overpriced rooms at the Feldepost Inn. That moron Marl was probably still there.

Taking shelter in a warehouse, which was guarded by hounds, hounds which instantly attacked them and would not calm, despite Kivan's attempts to the otherwise, they were forced to 'subdue' the feral beasts. Finding a quiet spot and praying there weren't any rats or that the warehouse's owner wouldn't come back, she bit back a sigh and allowed herself to rest. Kivan was on first watch, Kagain on second, and Garrick and Xzar jointly shared the third. Edwin was having no part of it, and frankly, she didn't trust him. Although, to be fair, she didn't actually trust any of them.

She wouldn't be at all surprised if she woke to the scent of roasting meat as Kagain tucked into the canines. A few days ago, she never could have imagined it. But that was before that wolf tried to savage her and Imoen.

* * *

_You do not dream often, but tonight the visions are vivid indeed. Long have you walked, but now you find yourself back amidst the stones of Candlekeep. Your former home looms before you, the drab walls just as you remember them. Over the barricades, you see your old room, and you wonder if it really was as small as it appears now._

_As you stand before the keep, a familiar figure comes into view. Gorion stands before you, but his visage is shadowy and weak. He is dead in your dreams, as in life._

_The phantom of your foster father mutely walks towards the woods, towards supposed safety, and beckons you to follow as he did once before. This time, you remain behind, knowing what is to come._

_Before your eyes, phantoms of the past reenact the pathetic scene that must have taken place in your absence. Clad in armour assuredly magical, a figure strides from the darkness. Admittedly a powerful mage in his youth, Gorion is all but helpless before the onslaught. As he falls, the scene begins again, replaying over and over. Each successive viewing makes the unknown warrior all the more impressive._

_As you stare at the murderer of your former mentor, one thought coalesces in your mind: You will have such power as this. Whatever it takes, you will have all that he does, and more. With that, a passage becomes clear through the darkened wood, and you wonder how you could have missed it. The trees close behind you as you walk, but you are unconcerned. The path feels right and will assuredly give you what you seek. It seems to promise this in a voice you know, but yet have never heard._

_The image of Gorion's death replays in your mind throughout the night._

_You get used to it._

* * *

Awaking to a new dawn, Hecharna stretched, yawned, and readied herself, leaving her companions to do the same. The sun was shining, the day was glorious (as needlessly announced by Garrick), and they were about to traipse into some godsforsaken mine. But while searching for the way down, in the far distance, a great stone head caught Garrick's attention and swooning and begging, his irritating pleas finally won out and in a fit of exasperation, Edwin snapped at him. That was enough for her; petty though it might be, Edwin's incessant muttering had already driven her to distraction. He was less than pleased about taking the long route to Dynaheir, but the mines were at their doorstep, and as she pointed out, that nine hundred gold would go a long way towards arming themselves with better weapons, and that was something not even Edwin could argue with. Besides which, if they didn't, some other band might claim it first and Edwin, upon realising that he might be the reason they were down nine hundred gold, quickly muttered to his assent.

Along the way they were afforded a grand view of the pit, a gaping hole in the earth. Passing beneath a house on stilts, they crested the perimeter and noted the guarded shaft leading inside. What had she agreed to?

The large stone face was impressive in scope: five Kagains tall, by Hecharna's measure. It looked a little like Kivan, only more feminine.

Nearby stood the author of the work, judging by the chisel in his hand, and by the odd monologue. "Ahh, beauteous creature! You are my masterpiece! Never should I have stolen these emeralds, but there was nothing else that would capture the majesty of thine eyes! I did what must be done, for I have left my shop, forgotten all my commissions, and spent all that I had. I must complete thee! Wait, there is someone here! Who are you? 'Twas that relentless Greywolf who sent you, wasn't it?"

What was she to say to that? Maybe she should ask for a commission of her face, see if anyone would call her visage 'beauteous', what with her disjointed nose, crooked teeth… _wait a second,_ Hecharna thought,_ did he just say 'emeralds'?_ "Aye. Uh, Greywolf sent us, and you know why we've come, don't you?"

The sculptor in his foppish hat and bright sky blue knew how to beg, she'd give him that.

"You'll not take me yet, I beseech thee! I admit I stole the gems, but better they are the eyes of a work of love than a fat woman's tawdry trinket! I will give you all else that is mine, if you would but forget my crime."

"All that is yours, eh? So be it." She didn't even have to think. After all, that included the emeralds, the sculptor himself, and while that may seem a little hypocritical, since she herself had a bounty on her head, if this Greywolf was after him anyway, she might as well cash in on the bounty first. And he would come willing – all she need do is let him finish his work. Easiest money she'd ever made.

"I have come for you Prism." Some oaf showed up to ruin the plan, sporting leathers and a wickedly black blade, his hair white and face grizzled. No doubt this 'Greywolf'.

"No! Not yet! My work is nearly done! Please, I implore you!"

"Your sentiment is wasted on me, fool. You are but gold in my purse. Do you make your situation worse by hiring help to protect you? Who are you fools?"

_Actually,_ Hecharna mused, _Prism is gold in _my_ purse._ Aloud, she returned, "Prism wishes only to finish his masterwork. Why not let him? What harm can it do?" That should provoke the fool, and there were six of them and one of him. With a little bit of luck, both Prism and this idiot's effects would soon be hers, along with the bounty. If they were attacked, it was self defence and hopefully, one less bounty hunter who might come after her.

"You should be more worried 'bout the harm I can do! Never have I taken a bounty and not delivered! Now stand aside that I might dispense with this fool and claim my prize. Or would you rather I go through you to get him? Consider well if he be worth your lives!"

The idiot didn't know when to step away. Then again, insult a man's pride, wound his ego… And there it was, the defensive stance and a swipe. Fortunately, Kagain's shield was waiting for it. Hecharna's hammer struck sound and true, Kivan's arrow planted itself in Greywolf's back, and a few spells flew. While that horrid black blade did strike against her plated mail, only her ribs were bruised; an icy chill enveloped her, causing wracking pain but Hecharna knew she would be okay. And so it was, the nefarious Greywolf fell. They left his corpse to be eaten by wolves.

As for Prism? Well, he spouted some babbling nonsense before his heart gave out. Hecharna got the distinct feeling that his bounty wanted him alive, so severing his head probably wouldn't have done much good, and who was going to carry it?

"Alas, my work is complete. Take what you will from my possessions, but leave the sparkle in her eyes. O sweet creature, my effigy to thee is done. Perhaps our paths shall cross in distant realms, and I shall find the courage to call thy name: Ellesime!"

A lovestruck fool. So that was what this was all about. No one had ever called her 'beauteous' or even close, nor 'sweet'. She was taking those emeralds. Perhaps a merchant would offer a fine price for them, otherwise she'd offer them for the bounty. Irritated and more than a little sore in the tummy, and not from Greywolf's black blade, which she offered to Kivan on loan, she made for the mines, not caring if her shields were one or two steps behind her. But behind her they'd best be. She was about ready to clip ears, so if she heard one squeak out of Garrick or Edwin…

But then there was Emerson, the foreman. "I really don't be needing adventuring fools wandering about me mines! Especially ones that think they can tromp about with nary a thought about askin' permission! Hmph! You've got one day. If I see you after that, I'll have a new shaft dug fer each of ya! Got that?! Good!"

Hecharna was tempted to have Kagain lop off his head then and there, but if she allowed every rude pissant of a man offend her, the Sword Coast would run red with blood. She'd be back, and then he'd rue his words. Making him eat his comments would be far more satisfying than washing his entrails off her boots.

And so, they braved the mines. The dark, stinking mines. Damp, cold, horror that it was. What a miserable existence. This seemed even worse than whoring, Hecharna shuddered. Upon passing beneath the first beam and lantern, some all-but-naked gaunt man accosted them – which seemed to be the common custom here – and informed them that there were 'demons' or some such. His friend Ruffie swore to it, apparently. She was having none of it. What would demons want with some backwater? A couple of paces further on, and 'Ruffie' also waylaid them. Naturally, the sensible question was to ask for a description of these 'demons', to which the dullard pronounced they looked like 'demons'. Circular reasoning, circular idiot. He must have been dropped on his head.

The next half-clad accused them of being the next batch of fools, which meant that she was right to try to claim the bounty before someone more competent came along. Xzar had better be worth this; after all, it was his little forage down here that brought them to Nashkel in the first place.

Fortunately, the upper levels of the mine were well-lit, fortunate for Garrick, Edwin, and Xzar, that was. Hecharna, Kivan and Kagain had little trouble with the gloom, but Hecharna kept Dusty close by: it wouldn't do to let the miners see him, but perhaps he might be of help. If he hadn't been practicing her commands, he would be finding a new home here, and then she would find that ferret.

[…]


	8. Chapter 2, part 3

**Chapter 2, part 3**

Waylaid by yet another miner; this time, one wanting a dagger to be ferried to another. Hecharna couldn't quite believe it. What was she, a courier? Was this some sort of jape? Were there wizards watching through their scrying bowls, as some kind of reality theatre, a play? Irritated, she pressed on.

Then she saw them. Kobolds. Four of them, after one of the miners. The half-clad fool ran towards them, behind them, and back up to the highest level, leaving her to face the kobolds. Well, she couldn't exactly blame him; she was in plated mail and wielding a hammer that occasionally spat lightning.

She wouldn't even call it a 'fight', more of a 'slaughter'. That moron had identified the kobolds as the demons… is that what had taken out other 'adventurers'? Not that she'd ever assign such a title to herself. She was in no way 'adventuring', merely trying to survive and pocket a bit of coin. But really, is that what the rude mayor was offering nine hundred gold for? Kobolds? Gorion's tall tales had painted them as cowardly and pathetic creatures. Still, if the Amnish guards couldn't handle them, she should have a care. Kagain was going first.

In the mine carts there were chunks of corroded iron, as if partially melted. It was bizarre. Pressing on, Hecharna had them follow the lanterns; they were ambushed by kobolds over and over, but each time, they emerged victorious. The keen elf sight Kivan possessed, and she partially possessed, helped a great deal. Despite the presence of kobolds, the miners still had the audacity to lecture her about getting a 'real job' and 'settling down', and how one miner's daughter was a far brighter jewel than any riches or treasure.

Well, Hecharna mused bitterly, she might be beautiful and fortunate enough to have a father, but if he took a kobold blade to the gut or arrow to the eye, she'd be down a parent. So maybe they should shut up and let her earn her keep. She was this close to simply turning around but each time she almost did, she remembered the reward, that, and her companions might not look upon her kindly, and she still needed her shields. Maybe that's what being a leader was… providing loot and bandit blood to keep her henchmen appeased?

It appeared that sometime during the night, Xzar had instructed Edwin in the use of his strange crimson spell. Hecharna couldn't feel a little affronted and also wonder what kind of bargain was struck for that knowledge. Were they forming a boys' club, or was it something else? Well, it was none of her business what Thayvians got up to, and Edwin brazenly wore their colours, something which had not gone amiss. No one seemed to care though.

As they ventured further down the mine shaft, they were greeted by four more kobolds, and this time, their horrid arrows struck her plated mail, two of which finding the weak points, which, given the darkness that enshrouded them and the gloom from the lanterns, was an impressive, though painful feat. Bleeding and sore, Hecharna nevertheless chose to press on, after quaffing a healing potion, of which she now had two.

On the kobolds' were two vials of a liquid Hecharna was quite unfamiliar with. She left it to Xzar and Edwin to examine. Descending deeper, they ran across a corpse with a ring clenched tightly in his hand. The poor sap must have been wed, which meant there was a widow on the surface. Perhaps she'd pay well for word of her husband's demise, Hecharna considered bitterly, aware that there was no one left to mourn her.

It was at this point Dusty actually proved himself to be of use and pointed out a trip-wire right before Xzar was eviscerated by a wicked arrow. Perhaps the mephit would prove useful after all. Hecharna sent him on ahead, aware of the damp walls, the pools of water, the low beams and the dim lanterns. If the kobolds had laid traps, they must be getting closer to their lair.

Another ambush, and yet another arrow found its mark, further bringing Hecharna pain. Wasn't plated mail supposedly nigh invulnerable? Perhaps it was because she hadn't been truly fitted for it, but rather only tugged the straps tight. It did catch a little and the gambeson went only so far, and she was still getting used to moving in it. The caverns grew dimmer here, the walls less hewn, more cavernous. The air was less fresh too.

As they paused to catch their breath, Kivan blurted out, "Shut up! Your chattering might drive us all insane."

Xzar retorted, "I'll not be mocked, thou most slanderous harlot!"

Hecharna rolled her eyes. In the depths of the cavern, they found and slew a ghoul; its grey flesh writhing, stale, it reeked. The only upside was it carried forty-seven gold on it. Hecharna didn't like to think where it kept it or for how long. It was probably one of the miners. It was at that point Xzar chose to comment that: "I'm never quite so comfortable as when I'm at least six feet under."

Why did he have to be such a creeper? It was then Kagain got bitten by a spider larger than himself, and she had to give him Dreppin's antidote. She couldn't help but wonder if that was a mistake…

"Why must we emulate the ways of dwarven folk by crawling around these warrens?" Kiven asked the empty air.

What had gotten into him, Hecharna wondered. It was the most the elf had spoken in… well, the most she'd ever heard out of him! Inside of a minute at that. Then they found the largest concentration of kobolds to date: six, led by one who had a flaming arrow. But Dusty proved himself better than a ferret and struck the kobold squadron leader while everyone else rained bullets and arrows down, everyone except her, since she had loaned her sling to Edwin.

Then Dusty spied three tripwires right in front of the entrance to the lower level. She really hoped there wouldn't be many more levels. A tunnel with a kobold archer, then a narrow bridge and a dome of hewn stone set in a lake, guarded by another kobold with flaming arrows and two of his subordinates. Perhaps they were finally here, as there didn't seem to be anything else around… nothing to do but venture inside, Hecharna supposed, risking a glance. How many of them would make it out of here alive?

"I like it here, where the gold grows." Kagain remarked as they entered the gigantic cavern. Hecharna just shot him a look, but refrained from comment. Clearly that was dwarf poetry rather than an ignorance of geology… to her right, carpets strewn upon the floor drew her eye, then tapestries, a throne, and… a half orc.

"Tazok must have dispatched you, and my traitorous kobolds let you pass, didn't they? I knew I could not trust them! Armed as such, you have obliviously been sent to kill me! By Cyric, not a measure of ore leaves these mines unspoiled, and I am still to be executed?! I'll not lose my head over this!"

_That… was unexpected,_ Hecharna noted, then caught the unadulterated fury written upon Kivan's brow. She made a mental note of the name 'Tazok'. "Uh… yes… fool, Tazok is… most displeased with thee! Reveal your treachery and mayhaps he will spare you!" Of course he wasn't going to go for it, but it was worth a try.

"Tazok is unfair," whined he, "I have no desire to cheat him, or thee! My letters will show, they are in that chest. Take them, take them and Tazok will see!"

Did he really think her that foolish? Obviously so. There was no doubt all manner of poison tipped darts in the chest and it was probably an ambush and…

"Could we cease the incessant noise?! 'Tis such a pain behind the eyes!"

_Really Xzar? You chose that moment…_ Hecharna inwardly sighed.

"Fools! You'll never have a chance to take anything! Minions, come forth and kill the intruders!"

_How painfully predictable._ Hecharna hefted her hammer.

Mulahey, the half orc, summoned his vile magic and held both Hecharna and Dusty, while Kagain held off his minions, Kivan slashing at the foul villain, while Edwin and Xzar both cast that curiously scarlet spell that seemed to leech the half orc's life away. Meanwhile, Garrick, having doffed his armour, threw out an invocation to cause the kobolds to sleep, yet only one fell to the slumber. With that, Mulahey pleaded, "I yield, I yield to thee! Accept my surrender?"

Most certainly a trap, a tactic to stall for time, Hecharna was in no position to make a decision, and thus it was Kagain that cried out, "Ye die here today, ye foul beast!"

"You would not accept my surrender? Your heart is of the deepest black!" Said Mulahey, anguished and bleeding. Thus it was that Kagain's axe dealt the fatal blow, sundering the half orc in twain; wheeling around, they rebuffed the kobold and skeletal minions, forcing them back.

Finally, it was over and Hecharna was able to retrieve the blood-stained letters from the corpse. With an almost indifferent flick of her nail, she rolled it open, the seal already broken.

* * *

_My servant Mulahey,_

_I have sent you the kobolds and mineral poison that you require. Your task is to poison any iron ore that leaves these mines. Don't reveal your presence to the miners or you will find yourself swamped by soldiers from the local Amnish garrison. My superiors have recently hired on the services of the Blacktalon mercenaries and the Chill. With these soldiers at my disposal, I should be able to destroy any iron caravans entering the region from the south and east. I don't want to deal wit iron coming from the Nashkel mines, so don't fail in your duty._

_Tazok_

* * *

_My servant Mulahey,_

_Your progress in disrupting the flow of ore does not go as well as it should. How stupid can you be to allow your kobolds to murder the miners?! With your presence revealed, you should be wary of enemies sent to stop your operation. Your task is a very simple one; if you continue to show that you can't do the job, you will be replaced. I will not send the kobolds you have requested as I need all the troops I possess to stop the flow of iron in this region. Wit this message I have sent more of the mineral poison you require. If you have any problems then send a message to my new contact in Beregost. His name is Tranzig, and he'll be staying at Feldepost's Inn._

_Tazok_

* * *

[…]

_Damnit._


	9. Chapter 3, part 1

**Chapter 3**

* * *

It is certain that the death of Mulahey will relieve the fears of the terrorised folk of Nashkel, but you remain uneasy. While the half-orc may indeed have caused the evils that befell the mine, the shortage of iron is too widespread to be his doing alone. His letters confirm your suspicions, and though they give little indication as to where his cohorts are hiding, they may have links to the bandits that currently plague the Coast Way.

* * *

_Journal_

_Having plumbed the depths of the Nashkel mines, I should return to Berrun Ghastkill and inform him of the situation. Additionally, I should travel to Beregost and pay a visit to the Feldepost Inn. A man by the name of Tranzig is there and should have interesting information for me._

* * *

Inventory:

Hecharna

[Winged] Helm, Plate mail, +2 Hammer, Honorary Ring of Sune, Boots of Grounding, x4 healing potions.

Gold: 2,300

* * *

Time to get the gold, Hecharna decided, brushing off her tunic and boots. And then to wash off all the blood and innards in the stream. And _then_, off to find this 'witch' of Edwin's. Probably a jilted lover who rejected him before the first kiss, but who knew? Without another word, she began the long trek up through the mine. Perhaps she should hold onto this 'mineral poison'; who knew when it might come in handy?

* * *

_**A/N: Although I am aware there is a backdoor to the mines, but Hecharna is not.**_

* * *

"What the–? You lived? Are you telling me that you waltzed through our mines and took care of the problem just like that? Good on you, friend. You're a hero in Nashkel now!" Said one of the guards as Hecharna passed by.

_Pansy,_ she inwardly sneered, _any of these guards should have been able to purge the mines of kobolds. But if it gains me a reputation… more work, more coin… so be it._

Meanwhile, Garrick returned the miner's dagger but forgot to charge him. Idiot.

The cool night air was a breath of relief, the stars a wonderous canopy. If she ever had to set foot in another mine, it would be too soon.

Emerson greeted her with a wave. "Well, bless my soul, you made it back alive! If you don't mind me saying, you're about the most beautiful sight I've seen in weeks! I'll be tellin' the men to get back to work, we've got ore to mine! Still can't ship it for fear of bandits, but that ain't my problem. Best you tell the mayor of what you did here, 'cuz he'll likely give you a reward of some kind."

_Little dungheap changed his tune now?_ Hecharna forced a smile, her crooked teeth glinting in the starlight. That runt of a mayor had better pay everything and more, because she hadn't forgotten the town's insults. Without a word, she turned to make the four hour trek back to town, her companions trailing along behind her like the loyal pack of hounds they'd become.

The dawn was bright that morning as they marched across the outskirts. Waylaid by one of the townsfolk, Hecharna had to refrain from unleashing blistering sarcasm at his stupidity.

"You… you look familiar for some reason. Kinda like the group that stormed the mine. Leastwise you look like the description my broter Emerson gave. Ah heck, even if it's not you, I just feel like thanking someone. Good work down there!"

_And how many other heavily armed groups do you see marching through this pathetic backwater?_ She wanted to say, but instead smiled. "Your thanks are welcome, though perhaps a reward might say it better." She was joking – half joking.

"Well, you've got some nerve! Sure you may have helped the town, but it's not like everything's wonderful now. I'll be back to work tomorrow, but it won't matter. As long as everyone thinks Amn was behind all of this, Nashkel could be on the front line of a war. You try to sleep at night when such as this is going on!"

And there it was: the true gratitude. This was why she didn't bother helping others or joking with them. Goatspawn pig lover. Nine hells take them all.

And another: "You're the adventurers that saved the mines, aren't you? I should be thankful and all, but there's so much more to be done. The mines are clear, but bandits rule the roads and relations between Amn and Baldur's Gate are still horrible. Lots to be done yet."

_So you, you peasant woman, are now an expert in international politics? _Hecharna sneered inside, but asked for directions to Joseph's wife. The ring Garrick found with the inscription might yet gain her something – but it wasn't to be. All she could do was increase her legend; a greenstone ring was worth almost nothing. Curse this town and all who resided in it!

Then they were spied upon by a beggar; her gaze was blacker than thunder. "I've nothing of value, p-please leave me be!"

Finally, some respect.

But then they were accosted by a man as large as Winthrop, and twice as ugly, were such a thing possible. It was the boils as much as his simpering. Pitiful.

"No, say not another word. I would not think of making you wait but a moment for your just reward. When council told me that they had procured GREYWOLF to rid the woods of the bandit Tonquin, I knew we could expect swift justice. I would not have predicted success this quickly, but who else could it be striding into town looking, ah, looking as you do? Please accept this meagre sum of 200 gold pieces, as well as the heartfelt thanks of all of Nashkel."

Heh. Well, Kivan carried Greywolf's sword, and the man was dead, so why not? "I'll take that reward because of what I did." Fool.

"Excellent doing business with you, Greywolf. We shall not hesitate to call upon you if any other thieving miscreants make their presence known."

Perhaps this was the place to claim Prism's bounty, but first, to appraise the emeralds at the shop.

And close by stood Berrun Ghastkill, a fool and not one whit the wiser… "You have returned! It would seem I was right to trust you. The town thanks you wholeheartedly, and is pleased to give you the proper reward. Take this 900 gold for your efforts. It is a small fortune by anyone's standards. Thank you again."

"I also found this vial of liquid on one of the kobolds in the mines. I think it might have something to do with the iron," Garrick unhelpfully offered.

He needed to learn when to keep his yap shut.

"Hmm, I'm no master of metals but you might want to show that to Thunderhammer, up in Beregost. He might know a little more."

Useless cretin of a man.

"Again, thank you for all you have done."

[…]

"…750 gold for the pair? Fine," _You poxy thief,_ Hecharna swore beneath her breath, then motioned for Edwin to speak with the cuckhold. Naturally, Edwin threw up a stink but she gestured a 'go on', in regards to inquiring about magical items, of which, only he knew enough to inquire about, of course. While the storekeep was distracted, she had Garrick replace them with two other forged notes, saying 'sold'. Clearly, he had not observed the plated mail she and Kagain wore, on account of his short sight and shorter memory, so two missing green rocks would no doubt go unnoticed too. And if they should not? All she did was inquire about the price – what money had changed hands? She had turned in the bounty, had she not? She would have sent Xzar but she trusted him to stay on task about as much as letting a rabbit not reproduce in a field of other rabbits.

The bounty officer only offered two hundred for the emeralds instead of three; his captain chewed him out, Hecharna noted in her journal, wishing she'd been there to see it. Fool got no less than he deserved, and now his bluster about throwing them in the stocks was an attempt to rebuild his shattered ego. Another cuckhold, if any woman would debase herself enough to spend the night with the likes of him. But even with the 'deduction', she still made a hundred gold more.

* * *

Treasury: 5625.

* * *

**A/N: Kagain and Xzar all reached level 2. Kivan started at level 2 and hit 3. Also, confession time: I really wanted to dual Xzar to a cleric, but he has but 14 str and 15 is required, so I slipped him an extra point of strength and one of wisdom (not waiting to find those tomes!) and then removed them. I also noticed that Edwin's stats, at 72, were the lowest of the entire group's, even lower than Hecharna! Kivan stands at 81, Kagain at 82, Xzar at 83, and Garrick at 81.**

**In addition, I decided to house rule that every time Hecharna gains a level, Dusty gains 1d4 HP as well.**

**HP as it stands:**

**Hecharna: 13/13 (level 1 fighter/cleric/mage, 11 con)**

**Kagain: 30/30 (level 2 fighter, 20 con)**

**Kivan: 26/26 (level 3 ranger, 14 con)**

**Xzar: 8/8 (necromancer 2/cleric 1, 10 con)**

**Garrick: 12/12 (bard 2, con 9)**

**Edwin: 6/6 (conjurer 1, con 16)**

**In addition, as it currently stands, Hecharna has slain 19 foes, which is 19% of the party kills.**

* * *

"I am Death come for thee,"

Ye gods, what now?

"Surrender and thy passage shall be quicker…"

Another twit, this time, hooded and in black with a mint green trim. And… throwing axes? Here we go again, Hecharna sighed. "I'm not surrendering to anything."

"Struggle if you must, dead one–"

She struck first. The 'command' incantation set him on the ground, and then her little band closed in… two arrows, a bullet, even before she could get half way with her hammer, 'Nimbul', as his bounty letter identified him, breathed his last.

And so, Nashkel was left behind and off they went in search of a witch.

[…]

Ambushed by gnolls! Four of them! …They didn't last long. Then two Flinds in an autumnal clearing. Kivan took a grievous blow, and then Kagain who shrugged it off. And then… more gnolls. Many more gnolls. And a strange… white haired, dark skinned elf with two curved blades. Inexplicably, lightning struck on a sunny day, slaying him in a single blow. Although usually given to taking the trinkets of others, Hecharna decided that in this case, such gear must be cursed and left it well alone. It was a most strange thing, however, almost as if the gods themselves took affront, nay, umbrage, to such a person for merely existing. Curious. Hecharna did not give it any further thought and set about slaughtering the remaining gnolls, of which there were twelve.

Kagain's contribution was to utter, "You buncha chumps! What the hell do ya think you was doing?"

Perhaps he was referring to our newly acquired fame, Hecharna pondered. As they continued cutting across country, at Kivan's direction, she spied a hole stuffed with spell scrolls. A remarkably strange cache, but she wasn't about to say no. Nearby, she met a child who claimed to have lost his 'wittle doggie'. He seemed… somehow unchildlike in his concepts, if not his speech. Something about using different money at home when asked if his 'Ruffie' was valuable. It was a strange thing, Hecharna mused. But since Garrick was making puppy eyes, she sent him off with the chew toy.

Along the way, there was Sendai of the merchant house of Argrims, and her greeting was: "Travellers from the north, halt! You trespass deep into Amnian territory. Perhaps you have come to spy upon our supposed troop build up. It's quite funny, the stupid notions you northern barbarians can get stuck in your heads."

"I am tired of being insulted by every pompous idiot I come across. Draw steel!" …Really, she should have held her temper, but it was already fraying and something in it just snapped. And again, the other party just had to have the last word, the last insult. It would be their last.

"Why, it seems we have stumbled upon some berserkers. I had suspected as much when I caught your scent a few moments ago, but your behaviour clinches it. Delgod! Alexander! Let us make short work of these peasants."

A command on Delgod, a command on Alexander, all fire focused on each in turn, and then upon Sendai, while Kagain held her off in single combat and the merchant house of Argrims lost a daughter and two of its lackeys.

Hecharna felt no remorse as she picked through their effects: a magical sword, enchanted studded leather, and some arrows with minor magics, and some gold. Even if Edwin paid nothing for Dynaheir, this little foray had already paid for itself.

Nearby, another duo, also accosted Hecharna, bandits, both of them, one claiming to be the 'fastest dart thrower to ever walk the Sword Coast'. Darts-xvarts. A couple of solid hits, a few bruises and a gaping gash, and first Vax, than Zal, went down. On the corpse was a pair of interesting bracers which naturally were loaned to Kivan.

Then there was Ruffie, drawn to the chewtoy. …And Albert turned out to be a demon of some description, winged, clawed, horned, and offered a black opal in return for his 'doggie'.

A little further west was a dryad, a couple of goons, a magical girdle, and more loot. Had Hecharna but known the Sword Coast held such riches, she never would have stayed in Candlekeep! She rolled her eyes. Of course, after helping the dryad, the tree critter provided only a paltry reward and after offering more rudeness, joined the two goons on the ground in front of her tree. Xzar later found a dead cat at the base of the waterfall, by the lake near the dryad's tree. It belonged to a girl. He was reluctant to return it, but return it he did, eventually. That netted the purse 23 gold. There were three more gnolls near the base of the waterfall…

And then there was Ingot the gnoll. A gnoll who dared to address Hecharna, and spoke briefly of a fortress before she sent him to join the rest of his kin. From there, it was a long, winding path towards the gnoll stronghold, where the witch Dynaheir awaited.

Before entering the outskirts, an ogre tried to bar the way, ambushing them in a narrow gorge. There were a few narrow gorges around. Nothing was standing in the way of the purge Hecharna had in store for every last gnoll up in the fortress. It might not bring back Imoen, but at the very least, she'd put a sizable dent in the regional population.

Upon reaching the outskirts, there was a long wooden bridge suspended by rope with a great drop to the sea below.

The walls of the ruined stronghold rose up, its rounded towers a bastion. Opting to scout around the base of the cliff, searching for a better way in, Kivan discovered a set of caves. Within these caves were more Xvarts, which fell with ease, their bloodied blue bodies a ruin by the time their slayers were finished with them. There was little of note within these caves beyond a tome, a tome that promised Hecharna to begin to overcome her insecurity over her crooked teeth and disjointed nose, offering the secret to social graces. It didn't hurt to try, she supposed, and spent the rest of that night reading as they holed up in the cave. But before the dawn rose, she slipped into a slumber and there she dreamt.

* * *

_The stone tunnels of the Nashkel mines constrain your dreams tonight. The twisting depths are more a nuisance than claustrophobic now, what with the hidden marauders dead at your feet. Deeper you treat, chuckling over your triumph at each body you see, pausing occasionally to wipe your boots clean or check the odd kobold for coins you might have missed._

_There is a sound from below, and you move quickly towards it. A door opens, and before you stands Mulahey, in no better shape than you left him. Held from whatever afterlife calls it, this spectre has apparently been waiting for you. A dagger of bone hovers before it, ready for a willing hand to drive it deep. Had this creature breath, you are sure it would be hurling curses. It waits for the kill, a death beyond death and knows no hope. Rightfully so._

_You brush aside the quaint blade and bring your hands around the creature's neck. A stranger's weapon simply will not suffice in this matter; you must be certain this phantom remains among the dead. It is strange though: doomed though he is, Mulahey still looks somewhat relieved. His visage fades within your grasp and leaves you clutching at empty air. A puzzling turn but of little concern. The mine is yours once again._

_You turn to leave, but find the exit blocked. The lone dagger has become five: a skeletal set of claws that hovers before you. A talon extends and presses against your chest, and a hollow voice chills the air. "You should use the tools you are given." It traces a line of ichor on your tunic, increasing in pressure. "Listen to what is bred in the bone." There is a flash of motion as claws pus deep into your chest. _

_You awake in an instant, the sound of morning a welcome clamour. You are intact, and though tired, you are certainly not afraid._

_Your heart is not your weak spot._


	10. Chapter 3, part 2

**Chapter 3 part 2**

The steps of the stone fortress where guarded by a set of gateposts. Up and up they climbed, landings every so often. It was on these flats Hecharna fought without mercy, without remorse. With Kagain at her side, Kivan a few steps behind, Xzar, Edwin and Garrick at the rear, and Dusty keeping watch, she made her bloody ascent. Not one gnoll left alive.

The first six died before she even broke a sweat. Two sets of three, strewn across the stairwell. Then seven stood in wait – all fell screaming. Another group – and then she saw him, the gnoll chieftain. Hecharna went for him, heedless of his lackeys, heedless of her own.

Surrounded on all sides, as her allies were gushing blood from the halberds of the gnolls, Edwin made a potentially fatal error in judgement: casting colour spray, he knocked down six of the gnolls, and Hecharna herself, denying her the chieftain. It was at that point Xzar cast 'command' on the chieftain, his healing spell upon her and somehow, she came to her senses, and struck the final, crushing blow, lightning spilling in rivulets from her golden-headed hammer.

Beneath the moonlight, the bodies of gnolls lay shattered. It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. But there, hidden in a pit, she was. The witch. Now Garrick having already prepared his charm spell, a scroll picked off a foe back within the Nashkel mines, invoked it upon the witch, if only, perhaps to try to spare her. Her words were damning.

"I am Dynaheir, a witch of Rashemen. I and my comrade Minsc have been sent by the Wychlaran to determine whether the prophecies of Alaundo are true. We search for the spawn of Bhaal."

All it took was that curious scarlet spell from Edwin and the witch breathed her last.

"So the witch Dynaheir is dead! I would have thought her more formidable to be so far from her homeland. Why then was she here? Her demise is not the checkmate I had hoped for, merely the check. What? What do you want?! (Oh yes, the matter of payment, although I begin to doubt whether their input was all that vital. Still, something for their trouble is in order, if only to appease them). As we never fixed a price, your payment shall be one year of my services as a wizard. I am sure you agree that my guidance will be far more valuable than any monetary sum."

[…]

The trip to Beregost was tedious but fraught with little peril. Outside the smithy, that mysterious, inexplicable lightning struck once again, this time against a figure wearing a pointy red hat. Most bizarre! Hecharna once again ignored the staff, lest there be some sort of connection.

[…]

A child named 'Chloe' ran up shortly after the lightning strike (which again happened on the brightest of days!), crying out Hecharna's name, and asking that she report to the Jovial Juggler to speak with one 'Officer Vai'. Hecharna, however, took a side trip to the temple outside of Beregost, turning in the symbol of Bassilus for 5000 gold. The Smithy held a suit of mail that caught her eye.

* * *

**A/N: EE content – elven chain, and apparently, the ability to steal from the Thunderhammer Smithy.**

* * *

Later that night, she had Garrick ply the old bait and switch… and voila, one shiny suit of armour. Which was much, much nicer. It would probably catch up to them one day, but hopefully not that day. Taerom Fuiruim was not nearly as dim as the idiot down in Nashkel, but as long as no one challenged their story, which was, they found it off some bandits just west of Beregost, bandits who had broken into the Thunderhammer Smithy at night and robbed the place blind, then there should be no issues. Would they return it? Absolutely not. It was their 'salvage' fair and square. Perhaps a little too obvious, if not for the bandit corpses – which was to say, one Tranzig, and the incriminating letters.

Officer Vai was a nuisance, though, at least she kept a civil tone, Hecharna conceded.

"Ah, Hecharna, I thought it might be you. These southern parts are quite afire with talk of your work in Nashkel… I am Officer Vai of the Flaming Fist and, to be honest, I could use your help."

It finally seemed to be paying off. Too bad Imoen wasn't around to enjoy it. What to say, choices, choices… 'The word of the Flaming Fist may be the Law in these parts but the extent of that Law stops within reach of my blade'. Best not to. "I am honoured to be found worthy of your notice, Officer. How may I be of assistance?" Being courteous, according to that tome, ought to garner her a better reception… which meant more coin, of course.

"My continent and I are cut off from Baldur's Gate. We haven't received new orders for close to a week, and, to be honest, I don't like the feel of this at all. The bandit raids have been getting worse since you returned from Nashkel. I used to think that they were just your usual brigands out there to make a quick buck in troubled times, but not anymore. They're working for someone… One way or another, I've got to get my troops back to the Gate. I'll pay 50 gold pieces for every bandit scalp you can bring me – and spread the news. I want this whole region cleared before winter comes."

Finally, recognition, decent work, decent pay. This is what it was about. She had finally come into her own, and with a little help from her shields, they would be rolling in riches soon enough. Now, if memory served, didn't Kivan want to hunt bandits? A slow, creeping smile flickered. For the first time since leaving Candlekeep, she finally felt as though she were beginning to get a handle on things. Of course, there was still that little matter of the assassins after her, but Tranzig's scalp would be the first to find its way into Vai's lap. Literal lap, not proverbial, blood, matted hair and all. After her little raid on the Smithy, pinning the blame on Tranzig, and taking it upon herself to hunt down the bandits in the region. Life was good right now.

[…]

Back in the Feldepost Inn, Garrick used that cute little trick to charm Marl, and after learning his son died trying to be an 'adventurer', Garrick sent him to the kitchen to think things over.

Funny thing was, Hecharna mused, that same trick worked on Tranzig. Gods, it was just so easy.

"Well, buddy, if ye're lookin' fer Tazok, you'll have ta search most of the Wood of Sharp Teeth. He and his bandits move their camp from place ta place so as to avoid the Flaming Fist."

Helpful titbit there. And then they were off.

* * *

**A/N: Creative licence using for justifying pickpocketing – because really, there's no way a storekeeper would let you walk out wearing the armour you somehow stuck into your pack without them watching…**


	11. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 – Bandits**

Following Tranzig's advice led the band to Larswood, where they ran across Teven. Pleading to join the bandits, they were escorted to Tazok, whereupon Kivan spoke up…

"I have waited a long time for this moment, Tazok."

"Huh? Who you?"

"You killed my wife."

"Eh, I kill many. What was her name?"

"You do not even remember her name? You tortured her, and laughed as life left her beautiful grey eyes!"

"Ahh… I remember now. You look not so good without the cuts and bruises, I think! Come back for more?"

"I've come back to avenge my Deheriana, beast, that her spirit may rest in peace!"

"Hah! Good luck, puny elf! Perhaps you will be seeing your precious wife soon!"

"FOR DEHERIANA!"

[…]

"Heh! You fight pretty good! Where was that when it mattered, elf? But enough of this, I have business to do – I take patrol and leave for mine. My bandits deal with you now."

"Flee then, but do not think this is over, Tazok! I WILL have my revenge!"

With that, the whole camp turned against the party of Hecharna. Cutting west, they fled towards the tree line and pivoted, setting their sights on Teven and his lackeys. Kivan might lack his revenge in whole, but at least there would be blood. Blood and scalps. Hecharna could just see the gold pieces before her eyes. Kagain might be able to clear his name, or as not; it did not matter to her in the slightest. Kagain's halberd, Kivan's bow and the black sword Varscona, her golden-headed hammer, the slings of Edwin and Xzar, the crossbow of Garrick; they launched volley after volley, barrage after barrage, blow after blow. The ground ran red with blood.

Then there was the tent with three gnolls in… a tent that Hecharna entered alone and returned with grim satisfaction, her hammer, boots, and mail dripping crimson, much of it her own. The cave filled with gnolls lasted less than the tent, this time her shields joining in. Not a one escaped.

Taurgosz 'Tenhammer' fell flat on his face at Hecharna's command, and the band pummelled the bandit camp leader with volleys of arrows and hails of bullets; by the time he stood back up, it took only one solid shot to slay him.

Behind him was a domed hut on a platform… on its dome hung the flayed bodies of several unfortunate victims, stretched out as a warning. That set the rage inside her ablaze. She didn't even need to issue the orders. They weren't letting anyone out alive.

[…]

The battle within the hut was over a lot faster than Hecharna anticipated. Four command spells, two from her, two from Xzar, and down her foes went. Then, the barrage unleashed, battered and pierced them, her hammer finishing them off. Each in turn. Just like that, it was over, the last bandit in the camp had fallen. Twenty scalps, hobgoblins, gnolls, ingloriously vanquished.

Inside hung the banners of the Chill and the Blacktalons, chests, tables, a command centre. There was a man on the far side. Hecharna didn't think twice: she had Garrick charm him. Or at least try to. Apparently, he was immune to it. So instead, she spoke… all while signalling Kagain to be ready. Just because he wasn't aligned with the bandits didn't mean he was an ally. After all, he had seen their faces.

Still, she reflected, it seemed there was a penchant for monologuing amongst the denizens of the Sword Coast, that, and having to have the last word. Was this guy ever going to stop?

"We're not Tazok's lackeys." Hecharna agreed, then instantly regretted following on with, "What's going on here?"

"Aye, you're not… Well, this whole place is dirty to the core, that's what's going on. These aren't your ordinary bandits. They're part Blacktalons and part Chill, Chill being a demihuman band, mostly hobgoblins, and led by that creepy smart one, Ardenor Crush."

Because clearly the banners weren't a dead give away. Or the fact that they identified themselves as Blacktalons, she inwardly rolled her eyes.

"There be others elsewhere, like that priest Mulahey sent to poison the mines of Nashkel. Set himself up as a kobold god returned and legions of the brainless barking fools believed him, ready to do his bidding till death do they part…"

Oghma, there was such a thing as too much knowledge, namely, too much of what she already knew. Question is, how did this individual know so much? Who was he working for? She'd probably better play along and find out. "Mulahey's dead." That was common knowledge. "He was working for Tazok, I understand. Question is, who's Tazok working for?"

"That's the trick, see? Crush and Taurgosz Khosann, leader of the Blacktalons, both think he's getting orders from the Zhents, and Tazok doesn't do much to discourage that particular line of thinking. But the Blacktalons and Chill are bandit groups, see? They ply the trade routes, avoid the cities, and that's where they go wrong. I'm from the Gate, and I can tell you dead as leather that the Zhentarim aren't behind this."

This guy must spend hours in front of a mirror, Hecharna decided. "How can you be so sure?" She allowed her eyes to widen just enough as she leant in just a little. The bragging was about to begin, she just knew it.

"A desire for silence isn't the only reason I wear soft-soled boots. I wear 'em so I can tell whose toes I'm treading on. I didn't mess with no Zhentarim. I picked my enemies and I messed with one group and one group only – the Iron Throne. And, right as rain, here I am as Tazok's personal prisoner. You do the math."

So many questions. So few she actually cared about. Gods, what she would give for a bath, a new comb, a fresh change of clothes… when was the last time she had a pair of leggings that didn't have tears in? Maybe a new skirt. Or maybe she should dress herself as a man, cut her ever-matted braid and just change her appearance. Maybe get engage in courtship, engage in an illicit tryst, get herself pregnant… maybe not. There wasn't a single man who even came close to grabbing her attention. Garrick was only a shade better than Dreppin, and that was only because of his boyish looks; both shared a single brain cell between them. Kagain was old enough to be her great granduncle, in attitude if not in physical years, not that she actually knew his age; Xzar, Edwin? Never mix work and love. Vapid, tasteless, vulgar. No.

Who else was there? Marl? Ha. Oh that was funny. How about this blaggard who couldn't stop talking? Winthrop? Dear gods, it just got worse. Maybe whoever kept setting assassins on her. At least that was kind of an interest… perhaps an attempt to gain her attention? Her blood turned cold. Who was that man that slew Gorion? 'Hand over your ward'. Was he really connected with the Iron Throne? Was it something else? And why did that dream admire him, saying that she could be as strong as he, stronger? The dreams felt real, not just some deranged attempt to sort out her grief. Besides, even if she did get close to someone, they'd probably end up dead, like Imoen. Her heart tugged and stomach knotted. Poor, poor stupid Imoen…

"The Iron Throne. Where can I find them?" Her voice was as ice wrought in steel and death.

"Tazok's been making regular visits to Cloakwood, so that's where I'd start if I were you. There are some documents in the chest that might be worth taking a look at, too. Now go step on some toes, all right? And you can tell them Ender Sai sent you."

That didn't even come close to answering her question. Did he, or did he not know where the Iron Throne was based? How hard was it? Gritting her teeth, she forced a smile. It probably wasn't safe to let him go, but she still wasn't a murderer. Of course, she had allowed the witch Dynaheir to die. Edwin never would have got close without her. Only… Ender Sai had been caught once before. If she let him go, he might be caught again, tortured, and this time, he knew her face. But then again, so did whoever was coming after her.

She decided to take a risk and let him go, knowing it would probably come back to haunt her.

[…]

Hecharna surveyed the camp one last time. Then with a nod to Edwin, she allowed him to fire the wooden, domed huts that dotted the grasses. A filthy mess of barrels, sacks, refuse, carts, everything the bandits had looted. Rotting. No latrines, no running water, just midden heaps and now the bodies of the dead, entrails, organs, innards, blood, bone, disfigured flesh. It wasn't pretty. The carrion feeders would have a feast. It was a blight that needed removing. On Kagain's belt hung the twenty scalps. Hard to believe that only twenty bandits, some hobgoblins and some gnolls, had done all of this. There had to be more, a lot more. That, or the Flaming Fist were the most incompetent force that had ever put on plated mail and marched.

Her finger ran along her mail, the same mail as the man outside the large hut. She never believed Garrick would actually agree to the 'bait and switch'; he was so eager to please but his morals were well-intentioned. She played off it. It was more that she didn't think she could convince him. In his ear over the course of that afternoon, she had murmured about how many townsfolk had been lost to the bandits, how the raids had hiked up the prices; who would clear up the bandits if not they?

She even inferred they would return it once all of it was done, for what further use would they have for it? 'Payment in advance' she chuckled, meaning every word. They owed them a reward, Beregost and Nashkel. If Berrun Ghastkill could offer them nine hundred which was the same as one suit of plated mail, how much would the scalps bring them? Why wasn't there a real reward for torching the bandit camp? She let him ponder on these questions until finally the curly haired bard with his large brown eyes asked what could be done.

Why, Hecharna considered aloud, as if the thought was only just occurring, they couldn't ask because he had seen how they were treated in Nashkel – and they couldn't just borrow it, could they? Garrick looked a little dazed and then wanted to know why not. Why couldn't they just borrow it? Why, that could be stealing… she returned, but then pondered as his whole face sank, how many more would die without it? Hadn't the mail they 'borrowed' in Nashkel saved her life, Kagain's life? With it, hadn't they been able to stop Mulahey? And Garrick nodded.

Her final question was to ask how many more would die if they didn't act – and that convinced him. She even made herself believe it – only, her motivation was a little different. The dead couldn't pay except with their effects. Or, she supposed, in Xzar's case, their corpses. She shuddered at that particular thought.

So with that, she watched as the huts burnt and opened up the scrolls. Where would they be going next? Probably chasing after this Tazok. After all, like Ender Sai, he knew their faces.

* * *

_Journal_

_Mulahey and Tazok have proven to be nothing more than puppets; the true master of this unfolding mystery continues to elude you. One thing is certain: Someone has taken a very personal interest in seeking your death, though why, you are not sure. Your search for answers continues, and the foreboding Cloakwood forest is your next target._

* * *

_Letters:_

_Tazok,_

_I hope that everything moves along smoothly. I have written to give you instructions from our superiors. I have been told that a small band of mercenaries might cause the Iron Throne some trouble in the future. You are to ensure that they don't live to upset our operations. Obtain the services of the assassin Nimbul. He should serve you well._

_Davaeron._

* * *

_Tazok,_

_I have noticed that your shipments of iron have slowed of late. It is imperative that we receive another ton of ore. Step up your raids, and get a shipment to our base in Cloakwood within the next week. We need to stockpile as much ore as possible before our ultimatum is given._

_Also, Sarevok wants to know what happened with the band of mercenaries. Have they been killed? You had better ensure that they have been, as Sarevok will not take kindly to other news._

_Davaeron._

* * *

Well… whoever this Davaeron was, he seemed to answer to others, perhaps this 'Sarevok'. It would appear that she would have to 'interrogate' Davaeron for Sarevok's whereabouts. There wouldn't be any rest until she was rid of them, perhaps bringing down the whole of the Iron Throne. Stockpiling ore, huh? What a curious notion… something she could get in on. Cut the supply in Nashkel, with bandits, mine their own ore from this mine Tazok spoke of in Cloakwood, and then hold those in need of it to ransom. She could make an absolute killing. She even applauded it. Trouble was, why were they after her? They had struck first, hadn't they? Had Gorion done something to anger them? But the armoured man said 'Hand over your ward'. Could it be she was the illegitimate heir to the Iron Throne? Now that would be a twist. That would explain why people would want her dead. Stranger things had happened, and that was the sort of moronic story Gorion was always fobbing her off on.

But then, who was her mother? Some half elf from Ashabenford, Gorion had mentioned. Her father? The leader of the Iron Throne? Maybe her mother was his whore? But who then was Gorion and what role did he have in any of this? Well, she didn't have a better theory right now. Either way, she was going to have to bury this Sarevok since he wanted her dead for some yet unknown reason. It wasn't hard to put two and two together: Nimbul had been waiting specifically for her, and the letter spoke of a 'small band of mercenaries', which was a much more apt description than 'adventurers' or 'heroes'.

Since Tazok had run off, he had probably already set up an ambush at the mines in Cloakwood and like a fool, she would give chase. Maybe she could cripple their production and destroy this mine. Or maybe find a few bags of holding and steal the ore for herself. Wouldn't that be something?

All around her, the huts crackled and blazed, their trail of smoke rising higher and higher into the night. It was definitely time to leave.

* * *

**A/N: with the pilfered full plate mail and the ring of protection +1 from Tranzig, Hecharna is sitting neatly at -6 AC. The elf mail, while wonderful, stays off until she's higher in level.**

* * *

Treasury before bandit camp: 12,096

Treasury after bandit camp: 16,511. (Not including loot or scalps).


	12. Chapter 5, part 1

**Chapter 5: "Cloakwood"**

* * *

**A/N: will our unlikely 'heroine' survive the rigours of Cloakwood or will she fall by the wayside like her predecessors? Or will she turn tail and flee? Will she let her quarry escape her?**

* * *

Scalps meant money. And scalps rotted. Every second she dithered was another second Tazok had to fortify himself, another second for more assassins to close in on her. But what was that Gorion had once said? Something about a moving target being harder to hit? Well, she didn't like playing anyone's game, playing into anyone's hand. So what if this Iron Throne handed out some ultimatum? It meant absolutely nothing to her. Not one damned thing. So maybe she should just disappear for a while, turn those scalps in, and let Tazok think she'd given up the chase. Then they could strike at a later date. That would teach them. In the meantime, she and her little band could hone their skills slaying monsters and looting the various ruins scattered along the Sword Coast.

But then… was she really so willing to let Tazok just get away? Then again, this Sarevok fellow might just have him killed for failing to dispense with her and her little band. Wouldn't that be nice. Too much to hope for, and Kivan wouldn't be denied his revenge. Of course, if she really wanted to hurt this Iron Throne, she'd strike their coffers, their ledgers, and this mine. But what if she really was a lost heir to it? Wouldn't that just be hurting herself? In any event, if she could find and frame this Sarevok fellow with damning evidence, someone would take care of him for her. Was that indirect murder, or was it war, doing what she had to to survive? Morality and ethics had never been a subject that interested her all that much; she needed to eat, needed a place to rest, and if they had dispatched hunters, the inns were not safe havens. Not that they had been to begin with. That didn't leave her with a lot of options. To mine or not to mine.

She was a little surprised no one had died recently. Surely it would only be a matter of time. Of course, teaching Xzar about her beliefs had helped… the furthering of knowledge and he had learnt the basic tenets of faith. He also had knowledge he wanted to advance, although his was of a more dubious nature than her own. He had finally agreed to teach her his strange spell… draining the lifeforce of others and transferring it to herself. Very handy.

What to do, what to do? Well, if she had twenty scalps at fifty gold a piece, that was a thousand gold, easily. Assuming this Officer Vai lived up to her end of the deal.

So it came down to this: did she feel like tromping through hostile woods and marching into an ambush, or should she lay low and allow her foe to fortify? They'd probably keep coming for her until they found evidence of her death… could she fake her death? That might be the way forwards. Now that might be worth doing.

The fires still burnt behind them as they trekked back through Larswood, retracing their steps, Kivan taking the lead. As Hecharna pondered and puzzled over her decision, she found herself leaning more and more to regrouping. While they had won a major victory and struck a stunning blow, it was only through the sudden strike, swift and furious, that they had succeeded. They had caught their foe off-guard and off-balance. This Iron Throne was unlikely to make that mistake again and overconfidence would kill her surely than walking in front of a rabid bear in just her nightie. No, if they hit this mine, they had to be smart about it. They had blundered their way through the Nashkel mine, but that was a mine where there were Amnish guards and miners and it wasn't set somewhere in a foreboding forest.

And then there was that other difficult decision to make. Garrick would only slow them down and get himself killed if they tried to storm a mine, and as much as Hecharna didn't like to admit it, she had grown somewhat fond of the young fool and his talking chicken. The two conversed daily, the bard singing his songs and the chicken clucking along, then commenting on it. She had also engaged in conversations with said chicken over magical theory, and Xzar and even Edwin had joined in. Garrick was the conscience of this little band but he was also a liability. If their foes were in this mine, there was going to be a lot of bloodshed. She didn't intend to leave anyone alive. Garrick shouldn't be around for that. Kagain – well, he was a dwarf, and while it was a stereotype, he had no issue being in the Nashkel mine. Kivan was a whiner about dark places but he would be invaluable tracking the mine and guiding them through the wood; besides, he'd only go after Tazok alone if she released him and she had no intention to.

Then there was Xzar. She owed him nothing. They should have parted company after Nashkel but for some reason, he'd stuck around. Perhaps it was on account of Tranzig; perhaps he wanted to see how far this trail led. But now… now he had an answer. This Iron Throne. Who was he working for? What was his motivation? That he would find her and Imoen along the road to tag along with… what was his game? Could she trust him? Of course she couldn't; the man was completely unhinged, but he did seem to harbour some kind of mission. So what did that leave? Edwin, who offered his services for a year? Well, Edwin was nothing more than arrow fodder, and perhaps a dab hand with the Weave.

That settled it then; when the time came, Garrick would remain in a place of safety, at least for the time being. She'd probably return to find him murdered, though. His face was known. Maybe she should bring him along then. He had handled himself well enough in Nashkel's mines.

Maybe none of them would get out of Cloakwood alive. How long would they remain with her? Kagain had little purpose but who knew how long she could rely on him before he set off? Kivan was just as likely to leave if it got him closer to Tazok; Edwin was a snake in the grass and his word was worth less than piss spilt on the ground, and as for Xzar… they were never friends, only allies of convenience. Anything else was just a lie. The only one she might rely upon was Garrick, but he was so starry eyed, so stupid, he might forget where he made his bed and wake up in some tavern in a complete daze. No, the only one she could rely on was herself. Even Dusty was there only because she had summoned him. Melicamp would probably end up as a wolf's lunch. Perhaps she should take a trip to High Hedge and restore him, but honestly, he probably had a better life with Garrick than as a failure of a young man; after all, if he couldn't manage an apprentice, what hope did he have? Would he have to sell his body or find work in a mine, turn to banditry? Perhaps being a talking chicken really wasn't so bad; he and Garrick could put on acts in taverns and inns, make coin, indulge in fine foods… someone would probably steal him though.

When had any of them become her responsibility? She was still feeling guilty over Imoen. They followed her because they chose to, because they owed her. One day, those debts would run out. So she had best make use of them before they did. But advancing on the mines was a mistake; it's what everyone expected.

The mines could wait.

[…]


	13. Chapter 5, part 2

**Chapter 5, part 2 – Journey to the Sirines' Cove**

While journeying towards Beregost, shortly after her internal debate, one of the bandits they missed struck Garrick with two arrows before being felled. Xzar was kind enough to restore the bard's health, but it was a firm reminder just how vulnerable they truly were. Hecharna felt more settled with her decision not to brave the mines just yet.

Twenty-one scalps. Then they ran afoul of five hobgoblins, led by one in a grey tunic. Despite having dispersed the bandit's encampment, it seemed clear their ilk still roamed. Well, that only meant one thing: more hunting, more scalps, and more coin. It did strike her as odd she couldn't take the hobgoblin's scalps, but Officer Vai had been specific in her inference on that point: Hecharna took it to mean that hobgoblins were not deemed a 'civilised people' and were nothing more than vermin to be hunted down. Which perhaps was fair enough, or perhaps it wasn't; more likely, Vai didn't want to pay any more than she had to.

The detour out of Larswood, a detour that occurred due to Kivan's enraged anguish at Tazok's flight, took them out past a farm and fields. Within these fields, a monstrous creature of chitin green arose from the soil and proceeded to… fall asleep at Hecharna's command. This basic incantation had saved them so much hurt so many times. It was a simple job of slaying the beast. Then someone commented, and she wasn't sure who – whether Kagain and Edwin bickering, possibly Kivan or maybe even Garrick, that their shells were worth coin. Well, well, well. In that case, Kivan was carrying it – give him something to focus on while he worked out his foul temper, and back to Beregost smithy.

Along the way, they were met with two more of the monsters – Ankhegs, Xzar gibbered. They were likely a pair, and it took three commands to fell them long enough for the hammer, blades, arrows and slingshots to do their work. The next problem was lugging all the shells back…

[…]

Along the way, they ran into a strange woman, who said: "You've come here to fight ankhegs?"

No? Was Hecharna's initial response but she shushed Garrick with an irritated wave; he should know better than to speak out of turn, him and that talking chicken of his. Dusty had learnt, and if Dusty could learn, so could Garrick. Was she really going to have to box some ears?

"Well, listen up: it's mating season, so it's primarily females coming up to the surface, looking to put on a little extra weight."

Joy of all joys.

"They're hungry, they're aggressive, and there are a lot of them."

_Really? You don't say,_ Hecharna intoned silently. Just how stupid did people think she was?

"Now, the point of this exercise is not to exterminate them, but to keep their population to a manageable level. Remember, they aerate the soil and thereby improve crop yields by as much as 15%. Food is going to be scarce enough in the next few years, so keep that in mind when you're out there."

_No, the point of the exercise was to make money, moron. _Hechnara inwardly rolled her eyes.

No more than four* ankhegs per party. After that it's catch and release, all right? Most of the activity starts about fifty yards to the east. Now move out, everyone. I'll keep an eye on things from here."

With that, the strange woman wandered away, leaving Hecharna to shake her head, both at the 'queerness' of the stranger, as Imoen would have put it, to which Hecharna sighed a long, slow, quiet sigh, and to the audacity to assume she had any kind of authority over her. If those ankhegs got in her way, she'd cut them down, take their shell, and turn them into coin. Still, it was useful to know there were so many of them. Perhaps she could get a head start on the market on account of the shortage of iron…

* * *

***A/N: I could have sworn this was ten. I would have put money down on it, actual hard, real-life currency. Is that you messing with me again, EE? **

* * *

The road to Beregost was wholly uneventful, and upon reaching the Jovial Juggler, Officer Vai offered 1,050 gold for the scalps. Not too shabby. Taking a room at the inn was a calculated risk, but a risk she felt they had to chance. At least they could barricade the door rather than risk camping out in the open.

* * *

_As darkness falls, your mind drifts back to events past and to conquests well won indeed. The feared and fabled bandits that have plagued the entire coast are as dust beneath you. You stride through their camp, ignoring their attacks, and scattering tents and bodies as you go._

_Your recollections are interrupted without impact or fanfare, as the earth opens to accept your passage. The cascading rock and gravel prevents your escape, and in a moment all is black. For all you know, you have descended to the very core of the world._

_The walls around you illuminate, and a cavern slowly takes shape, though you can see no more than a few steps ahead or behind. Stumbling forward you find yourself face to face with yourself._

_Before you is a likeness in stone exact to the smallest detail. A voice in the darkness accuses you, even as it seems amused. "Such pride is undeserved, great conqueror, when your whole being is borrowed. Credit where it is due, and dues where payment is demanded."_

_A dagger of bone flies from the blackness and strikes the statue, square. It cracks slightly, but the pain you feel is as though you were rent asunder._

_"You were made as you are," taunts the voice, "and you can be broken." You fall backwards into the void and do not come to rest until morning wakes you._

* * *

Coming to, Hecharna forced open her eyes with a squint. She hurt all over, inside and out, her innards feeling as if they had been flayed open. But what stung most of all was seeing that statue, its crooked teeth, the disjointed nose, and was that a new scar? She was part elf, so why did she have pimples? Was it a rash from her helmet, the chaffing? Her dark hair frizzed at the ends, curling and twisting, this way and that, wiry and matted where it had broken off from its braid. Her cramps had returned, which vexed her greatly, as she had hoped to avoid that particular fate after that old bat Phlydia had given her 'the talk', which turned out to be one of many in a series of such talks. Surely her elven heritage had to be good for something? So more irritable and cranky than usual, she shot Dusty a look as he reared his little head _daring_ him to speak out of turn. The mephit had learnt something of wisdom and wisely kept his yap shut. Storming over to Garrick's bedroll, for she certainly wasn't going to allow him the bed, she refrained from placing a sharp kick and instead set her boot on his shoulder and rocked him away. Melicamp being a chicken and not a rooster, despite apparently being male as a human, did not announce the dawn, which was probably as well. Edwin and Xzar slept in the other corner, and Kagain snored near the door, Kivan keeping watch by the window. _Bloody elves and their four hour reverie,_ she cursed inwardly.

"Wake up," She announced grandly, her voice low and heavy. "We're taking a little trip." It had been too long since they'd seen the sea, tasted the ocean spray; she missed it. She and Imoen would dip their toes in the surf, steer clear of sirines, any washed up Kuo-toa, sea zombies, and the like. There were always dangers, and maybe it'd break her heart and bring her to tears, but the sea was the closest she was getting to Candlekeep, to… home. She had enough for the entry fee now, if Winthrop wasn't lying, and he probably was, the fat sack of troll lard, but if Gorion was right then her enemies could still reach her behind Candlekeep's walls. All it would do is isolate her and leave her as a proverbial sitting duck. But a trek along the coast?

Who knew what treasure she would find strewn within the shipwrecks, of which there were many, even with the magic of the mages. The storms were terrible and frequent; there were bound to be a few.

Smithy first, then the coast. The others could just deal with it. Garrick would need to pack sandwiches, she instructed, wondering if he would be absent-minded and forget, or if their food would be poisoned. While Xzar would ensure they weren't, he'd probably pack spider legs, sucking the flesh out of the chitin, some kind of eyeball to crunch on, and some other disgusting things, probably bats and their wings. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with her for travelling with him?

"An interesting piece o' material you got there. Ankheg, if I'm not mistaken." Rasped Taerom Fuiruim at the Thunderhammer smithy. "Been a while since I've seen the like, but if I remember correctly, it makes a fine set of armour. If properly treat it's comparable to full plate with half the weight! If you're willing to part with your shells, I'll give you 500 gold for the lot of them. No more can I offer with business as slow as it is. Iron shortage hurting us al."

"Hardly a fair price for the trouble I went through to get it. Double your offer, and consider it done," Hecharna returned, trying not to snigger. Kivan, Kagain, and Garrick had done all of the heavy lifting.

"Whoa! Iron is not so scarce as to make me that desperate! 500 gold or nothing, and you can take it or leave it!"

"I suppose I will take it," she growled.

"Ah, this will make a fine suit of plate for a governor or better. Nobility likes exotic materials and don't care much about the price. Probably close to 20,000 gold for a tenday's work when I'm finished. I may survive the iron shortage after all."

And there it was, that disrespect, the ignominy. Yes, an armourer put in a great deal of work, but flaunting the profit in front of her? The raw materials was worth far more than that. She shot Garrick the darkest of looks and the young bard gulped; she was glad to have robbed the smithy, and perhaps, just perhaps, there would be a terrible fire that would see it reduced to the ground. It was probably warded but maybe Edwin might relish such a challenge. Not now, though. Ochre ooze scum piddling out of a pig's nethers; nine hells, she despised burgher merchants.

Garrick motioned to show the smith the second shell, but she cut him off, "No, I don't think we'll be parting with this one."

"A shame it is. How about this? For 4,000 gold I'll make it into plate for you instead. It's half my normal rate working on an exotic, but, as I mentioned, business is slow."

Hecharna couldn't help but sneer. "4,000 gold is ridiculous! It would be cheaper to make it from the gold itself!"

"And gold would be cut like cheese in battle, if you catch my meaning! Bah! Come back with the gold or don't come back! I'll not suffer lip such as this in my own smithy!"

* * *

Treasury: 18657

* * *

The gall of that gnome-spawn; his mother was a gnoll, his father a gnome, and may the oceans drown him a thousand times, Hecharna swore. But it wasn't as if she couldn't afford it. Her own plate was cumbersome, and Kivan could certainly make use of hers, once it was refitted to him. It wouldn't take too much, given they were of a similar frame. It wasn't as if she saw any full plate mail lurking around. Perhaps, after all was done, there might be an accident. A terrible, fatal accident. Then she caught herself: she wasn't a murderer. Killing over this avaricious gnome-spawn was too heavy-handed. The irony that perhaps she was just as voracious in her hoarding did not escape her and only served to make her mood worse.

"Make the damn plate," She grated, dropping four purses, each holding a thousand within, on the floor. There was some small satisfaction in watching the hunger in the gnome-spawn's eyes as he quickly stooped to gather it. Making him crawl at her feet was petty, but she did resist the urge to plant her boot in his teeth, or press down on his neck. Human he might be in body, but he had the soul of a red wyrm, and there would be a reckoning. She would not forget this, she vowed.

"That shell will rot in a tenday if not cured," Taerom warned, promising that the plated mail would be ready within three days.

That would tie in with her trip perfectly, she decided, turning and marching from the smithy. May he choke on his own spit, after he finished her plate, of course. With a nod to Edwin, she had the foul Thayvian distract the smith, Xzar the apprentices (although he needed no urging, examining their calloused fingers with his own, long spindly nails), and her darting glare to Garrick saw the bard flinch an enchanted sling. Perhaps it was unwise, impulsive, reckless, but with a second eye movement, homing in, she ordered him leave it a little nearer the forge than the rack it was on. Perhaps the smithy would burn down.

There was no way that wasn't coming back to bite her. A few seconds later, and she had Garrick shift it away, no one any the wiser. There would be time to indulge in petty vengeance later.

[…]

En route was Perdue, and Hecharna bristled at the response.

"Hmph. Figured maybe he'd eaten it by now. I hope you ran 'im through once or twice to get it at least. Now take your 50 gold and be gone."

Well, it wasn't for the halfling she'd gone after the gnolls. The fifty gold was just a bonus, a bonus that not thirty days ago seemed like a small fortune. How could it be she was thirty-one days out of Candlekeep? More money in her entire life had entered her purse and she had just dropped four thousand of it upon a suit of armour for herself. Perhaps she should hunt some more ankhegs after her trip to the sea.

Without a word, she strode from the tavern, leaving Kagain to attempt to chivvy the barkeep into pouring him an ale; she wasn't paying for his habit, and she still controlled the party purse strings. Edwin might one day attempt to wrest it from her, or more likely steal, but she kept a close guard on it. If he tried anything, she'd see him singing soprano until he found a cleric capable – and willing – to restore him. She'd cut his vocal cords and fingers to, lest he try to hex her.

High Hedge was next on the list, a place to stop after a four hour stroll, for the boys to relieve themselves, not that anyone had ever noticed Kivan engaging in such a pastime; a place for her to adjust her unmentionables, quaff another sip of the healing potion, and to finally purchase all those things she had noticed the first time around.

Upon spying the trees again, it hit her deep in the chest and her tummy gurgled; she felt sick. She had more than enough to bring Imoen back but it was too late, not unless the girl wanted to return. Maybe that self-pretentious, preening excuse for Beregost's mayor in the temple might be in good standing enough with Lathander to bring her back but somehow, she doubted it. The truth was, if she believed Imoen would want to return, she would have raced back as soon as she had acquired the coin, as soon as she had checked with the temple; eight, maybe nine hours for a round trip, but back then, coin was so scarce she didn't even know when her next meal was coming.

For their sake, she'd better not spy any more gnolls.

[…]

Instead, they ran into six skeletons, animated by foul magic, or perhaps, simply at unrest. She prayed to Oghma that none of them were Imoen; none of them were short enough to be Montaron. She had blessed Imoen's remains as best as she could. Naturally, Xzar decided to toy with one of the skulls, secreting it within his robes. Hecharna didn't even roll her eyes.

As they neared the octagonal tower with its protruding turrets, Melicamp squawked, pleading to be released from his avian form.

It was at this point Hecharna turned and had a very sharp, short talk with him, ending with whether or not his life as a human was truly better than the one he currently possessed. She refrained from using the word 'foul', but disgusted filled her voice and she informed him that as a chicken, he lived a life of luxury and his ingratitude was grating. Was he really willing to risk further life and limb? What if the spell failed as it had the first time? What if he turned into a bug?

After a moment's thought, he squawked and nestled down in Garrick's arm. At least there was one sensible person in the group, she thought with no small amount of sullenness. Why did she even care? She should just let the idiot chicken go through with his absurd scheme. But then, where would Xzar get his morning eggs? Or Kagain? Melicamp's value was such that it kept both of those idiots quiet and she wasn't about to jeopardise that.

[…]

Charming Thalantyr was something she hadn't expected to work but work it did*. A most curious result. Of course, unlike Firebead Elvenhair, the hedge wizard was no elf.

"I am Thalantyr, and I am known as the High Hedge wizard. I suffered something I won't even tell you, my closest friend, so I live up here alone. I used to adventure, but I'll not go back to those foolish days. You would do well to be careful too."

She wasn't about to speculate on what happened, and a warning shot at Edwin shut him up before he could mutter any lewd insinuations, while a second shut Garrick up about tragic losses. Xzar's eyes lit but he, too, simmered down. Gods, what was with her moronic shields?

And then it dawned on her… she could charm Xzar too. So she did, once she found a quiet corner around the back of High Hedge when no one else but Garrick was watching. Not that they would care.

"Well, my good friends, perhaps you'd like to know a little more about me? I'm part of an order known as the Zhentarim. We've been sent to learn why the Zhentish name has been slandered along the Coast Way. It would seem that someone has been trying to make our order look bad."

Well, well, well. That explained a great deal. Now, could she risk travelling with a Zhentish agent? Was there any gain to it? But what of her other comrades, what of Edwin?**

Lightening her purse further, her own magical arsenal, along with that of her mooks, increased quite a bit. Edwin received the horror spell and mirror image spell, Garrick receiving the latter, as well as a copy for herself, and she and the bard both gained a protection from petrification spell each, and Xzar gained a flaming arrow spell. Having sold their other trinkets pillaged from the defeated slain, she now sat at a tidy 16,483 gold. She had to stop spending her money like water. Then again, arming herself was worth every copper piece, if it kept her alive just a little longer. With that out of the way, she marshalled the proverbial troops, and had Kivan and Kagain lead the way, wary of bears, gnolls, skeletons, and huge spiders, all of whom might be waiting to ambush.

As she stepped off the last stair, her throat caught, and once again, her eyes were drawn to the tree she buried Imoen beneath. Stiffening herself, she forced one unsteady step to plant itself on the ground, followed by a leaden step, and slowly, her boots began to carry her forwards. Keeping Garrick on her left, Edwin a little behind her right, and Xzar at the rear, though she preferred having him in her eyeline, she fell in between Kivan and Kagain, a pace or two behind, and tried to relax her shoulders. Her spine tingled, her lower back seized, her tummy roared, her intestines knotting, and her heart clamped.

Stupid, stupid Imoen; why couldn't she have been faster? Why couldn't she have just stepped a little bit more to the side? Why did she have to get herself killed? And why, hadn't she, Hecharna, been able to do something? If those stupid dreams had happened while she was in Candlekeep, if she had gained the power to set her foes fleeing in fear… was it Xzar's fault for mentioning High Hedge, or was it hers for leading them here? No, he could not have known any more than she herself could have. And if it hadn't been Imoen, most likely, it would have been her.

If onlys were useless, stupid, and could get her killed. She had to be on her guard every second out here, or she'd end up just like Gorion, like Imoen, like Montaron. It was a miracle no one else had fallen. Yet.

Onwards they marched, towards the coast, one step at a time.

* * *

***A/N: and a subsequent reload due to game mechanics turning the creature hostile after the spell's end… thank you, Baldur's Gate -_-.**

****A/N: And nothing. Not even an earlier reload would reveal more. Alas!**

**A/N: After writing this chapter, I was curious to see what _would_ have happened had I attempted to have Melicamp returned – in this alternate playthrough, he did not survive the process. Alas, poor Melicamp. It is just as well that in our narrative, Hecharna talked him out of it!**

* * *

**I also (finally) remembered to add 1d4 to Dusty's HP, bringing the little chap to: 20 hp. He'll probably gain a couple of levels at some point; maybe when Hecharna hits level 6, I'll raise him to level 4. Two levels behind seems apt.**

**Kivan hit level 4 for the Ankhegs, as did Garrick. The rest are still level 3s, with the exception of Hecharna who is: fighter 2/mage 1/cleric 2. In 36xp's time, she will level up.**


	14. Chapter 5, part 3

**Chapter 5, part 3: The Sirines' Cove**

The coasts were just as Hecharna remembered; rugged, windswept shores, sharp, jagged cliffs, grasses and trees, the sea air fresh on her face, cooled by the night. The lone dread wolf that rushed them, too foolish to know it was outmatched, driven mad by hunger, was felled in short order. Not even that could dampen her spirits. Onwards they pressed, and then, a blue figure, a female of some description, kissed Kivan despite his protests, and he fell into a deep sleep.

'Shoal the Nereid' was her name; Hecharna could not recall seeing her like. Perhaps the sands around Candlekeep were safer? After being struck soundly, she pleaded for her life, speaking of a master, and Hecharna acquiesced: her mooks positioned in ambush. Her master, Droth, was an ogre mage. As before, Xzar's command laid low their foe, and soon he was no more. While he held Shoal's shawl, Hecharna did not forgive lightly: Kagain's envenomed dagger, a souvenir of the Thunderhammer Smithy heist, struck her where her kidneys should be. It was a pity that she, herself, could not use the shawl to control the Nereid, to bind her as a familiar. Perhaps in another lifetime*.

* * *

***A/N: Ah, were this a no-cheating/non-AU run, I might have altered certain settings… but I guess we'll never know. The tale of Shoal the Nereid, enslaved companion of Hecharna, remains yet untold.**

**Oh, but how tempting it is. And how possible it would be to create Melicamp as an onscreen character too, rather than just a chicken in a pack… **

* * *

South of Droth and [absolutely without Shoal the Nereid as an honorary party member 'familiar', with Hecharna changing her mind at the last second, as was her prerogative, halting Kagain and combining her efforts with Xzar and Edwin to unlock the secrets of Shoal's shawl and bind her to her service, much as Droth had done because that's absolutely the sort of thing she wouldn't do…]**, the band ran across a group of ogres, with ogre berserkers in their ranks alongside orgillons. Perhaps it was a measure of how far they'd grown that their wounds were minimal. Conveniently, perhaps too conveniently, a man who dubbed himself 'the Surgeon' stood nearby.

He claimed to be the brother of Davaeron and despised himself for having not slain him when he had the chance, claiming he was too 'weak willed'. That mistake cost him their father, as well as the lives of many others. Instead, the Surgeon provided a potion and healing, in the hopes that the band would one day confront Davaeron. Oh, how little did he know…

* * *

****A/N: Nor did the Surgeon find himself used as a base template for the arrival of Melicamp the Chicken, [string name: 31362 (for 'Melicamp the Chicken')], [appearance: white chicken], until such time an actual chicken with its soundset can take its place, because Shadow Keeper is quicker to use than Near Infinity and at stupid o'clock, I don't feel like searching through the soundsets… and nor did such a chicken ever gain a berserker rage as an inside joke and nod to Nimloth of Thay. Never would such a thing happen.**

* * *

After that little foray, and meeting a crazed gnome who offered a potion for fetching a ring he had placed in a shipwreck; alas, no treasure to be found! Hecharna and her mooks, (not including Shoal and the now apparent Melicamp), made their way south as north lay Candlekeep and she had no intention of going back there. Ambushed by three sirines, the party acquitted themselves well, and, with the healing magics of Hecharna and Xzar, they staved off the poison brought on by the water creatures' arrows, and put the territorial coastal dwellers to the sword. To her delight, Hecharna found they each carried a pearl. This did not bode well for the rest of the sirine populace along the coast...

How tragic, then, that they should meet one 'Safana' as they traipsed through the idyllic trees, crushing grass and hobgoblin underfoot, the sea spray on their faces, its salt catching the back of their throats and nostrils; the cry of the gulls and the screams of their foes. The earth ran crimson and in their wake lay a shattered reign of death and ruin. But at least the sands were pretty, which is exactly why they were here, Hecharna noted inwardly.

As for the 'pirate cave' holding treasure? She had no intention of splitting it with Safana, and letting the busty, lusty-voiced woman lead the way, a woman senior to her in years Hecharna mentally added, she waved Kivan down when he was about to point out there were sirines up ahead, his sharp elfin eye catching a glint of unclad blue. The elf's brow darkened, but Hecharna held up her finger, signalling everyone to crouch and hush.

Safana, unfortunately, did not see the signal; Kagain reached to tap her elbow, but the woman jerked away, irritation flashing across her dreamy eyes. It was to be her last mistake, and her back was the pincushion for three arrows. Instinctively, the rest of the band opened fire, even as Hecharna went through the motions of healing the woman. It wasn't to be. A pity, Hecharna thought, as she watched another shield slip away. Then again, some were more trouble than they were worth, and while it might have been nice to have a female companion, there was something in Safana's manner, her infections, the way her hips and lips widened just a crack, the way she breathed… it was overplayed, but Kagain, Garrick, Edwin and even Kivan seemed to be falling for it, and that simply wouldn't do. There was only one who held the debt in this band, and it would not be some interloper. A pity, Hecharna closed Safana's eyes, ignoring the fact they had the means to revive her at a temple. Perhaps, in another lifetime, they might even have been friends…

Or perhaps not.

Either way, the sirines proved troublesome but commanding four of them to sleep thinned their numbers enough that by the time their comrades awoke, some were permanently sleeping. The rest inflicted wounds where their horrid arrows struck, but the full plate mail Kagain adorned along with his shield protected him from the worst of it. Xzar healed whatever wounds he bore, and soon, they pushed forwards into the cave.

The sirine queen, Sil, did not last long before the onslaught, and Hecharna gathered quite a collection of pearls. The cave itself was nothing to write home about, Hecharna scolded Garrick who paused long enough to take notes while Dusty finally proved he wasn't entirely useless, though it was guarded by golems wrought of flesh. Tricky, but nothing they couldn't handle, irritatingly immune to their magics but not their hammer and staves, and it didn't take too long to tear the constructs asunder.

Within a pool there was a hidden cache, not quite as Safana described, but close enough. A cloak, a tome promising the benefits of a healthy diet, a regular sleeping schedule, and an exercise regime, and a few other knickknacks that were of little interest to Hecharna; the tome, however, was of immense promise, if it delivered. Her diet had long since suffered and any help she could get, she would take. The cloak also proved interesting, as Garrick claimed it would polymorph its wearer, at will, into a wolf. Everyone looked at Melicamp who clucked indignantly. And thus, the chicken became a wolf as he so chose.

All in all, it was a wonderful little diversion, and despite the carnage and having bloodied her boots, the ichor getting in and under her socks, Hecharna had a pleasant trip. So much so she was able to watch for jellies, dip her toes in the surf, and even considered swimming in the sea (absolutely without Shoal who wasn't there), but then she took one look at Edwin, whose lewdness had somehow grown worse with Safana's arrival and demise, and he didn't need any more encouragement. If anything, he needed taking down a peg or two. Perhaps he would change his tune if he could view things from the perspective of those he degraded. If only there was a way. Alas, she knew of none.

[…]

* * *

**_A/N:_**

**_For those of you interested in using Shadow Keeper to create your very own Melicamp the Chicken _****_as a companion in your game, this is how I did it. It's not the only way, but it is the easiest way I've found: _**

**_I'm using EE Shadow Keeper version 1 - 0 - 3 - 2 (because it doesn't crash on editing the out of party members the way version 4 does). All you have to do is 'control q' someone expendable into the party, but don't let them join, save the game, then edit the save file and select the 'out of party' characters and then you can change the base critter's name to 31362 (for 'Melicamp the Chicken'); set his characteristic to 'familiar' (under "ally/enemy"), and you might want to add:_**

**_Spell Effect: Clear Fog of War (Wizard Eye)_**

**_Target: self_**

**_Permanent_**

**_Nonmagical_**

**_You can also change his script so he will have a different dialogue (but I've yet to actually do that because I'm lazy/tired). _**

**_Of course, all of this can be done via Near Infinity, it's just Shadow Keeper is easier to use (especially when one is feeling lazy). And last but not least, changing his appearance to 'white chicken' (and probably his class to 'mage', perhaps even wild mage (but that means adding wild magic stuff to it)).  
_**

**_For your very own 'Shoal the Nereid', simply 'control q' her into the party, don't let her join, save your game, edit the 'out of party characters', and change the ally/enemy to familiar, add in the 'spell effect' (under 'effects'), and if you want, copy over your familiar's constitution penalty if she dies. There are a few more things you could add, such as altering her dialogue but she should say "I dream of windswept shores even while there". Obviously, as with Melicamp, you can alter her class, give her extra abilities and so on._**

**_Be warned! The more companions you add, the more you will make your game easier. Also, this little trick might get 'fixed' by the powers that be, so I'm hoping they don't see this since it is my favourite thing to do. If you do this to include all the NPCs in your game, be warned: they will _**

**not_ interact normally, nor will their triggers activate._**

**_So for what it's worth, my advice is this: do not use this unless you want a non-verbal companion, like a pet winter wolf. Or, mod your own dialogue (or find one that does work for you and use that). If you use a merchant's store script, this works, if you want to bring one along for some reason. Which again, is kind of game breaking. I'm just bringing along a Melicamp because I think it's hilarious, and Shoal because it's very much in-character for Hecharna. But, it's your game, so have fun!_**


	15. Chapter 5, part 4

**Chapter 5, The Seashore**

* * *

**A/N: I suppose technically that last section constitutes as 'cheating', but I prefer to term it as 'house rules'. Story first!**

* * *

The herbs the tome suggested certainly seemed to be helping, Hecharna decided, that or the brusque sea breeze, bracing brine rockpools, and generally more exercise than she'd ever had in her whole life. Edwin, of course, turned his nose up at the coastal fare until Xzar mentioned the word 'delicacy', a thing confirmed by Garrick, and then Edwin imbued shellfish – raw with a squirt of some citrus Xzar produced. The resulting mess polluted the rockpool and Hecharna kept her distance for the next several days. Xzar, however, continued to crunch happily on crabs he had caught, slurping and sucking loudly as he cracked open their legs. For some reason, their rawness had little effect on him, whereas, Edwin was considerably more delicate.

It was during this time that the young half elf maid's confidence began to reassert itself; gliding along the rockpools' edges was a game she and Imoen used to play, imagining that they were craters filled with molten lava and a single slip meant certain death. Imoen was easily the most carefree, agile and nimble lass in the whole of Candlekeep, matched only by one other, her rival and friend, Hecharna. For each recovery, for every slip, Hecharna was her equal, and in freehold climbing, even her better.

Imoen was faster with numbers, reading, and anything to do with books, but tired of it far more quickly, but everyone liked her more, always commenting how cute her dimpled smile was, how adorable her tufts and tussled hair was, her button nose, even her sprinkling of freckles. All the visitors wanted to have her dress nicely, in skirts, wanted her to curtesy, to beam from ear to ear, that mischievous gleam as she concocted this or that scheme. Even when she flinched pies, no one minded.

But should Charna set one toe below the line that was expected, let alone over… sometimes they didn't even need a reason. She was met with scorn, sneers, stares, and aloud wonderings about how she could even be in such an esteemed place; how they reminded her she was most fortunate, how Tymora smiled on her, the implication being that it was only by this that she wasn't out on her ear. There were frequent insinuations that Gorion should tan her hide, as should the Gatewarden and all her tutors and the other monks. But Imoen? Imoen could do no wrong. The worst part was the human girl wasn't even aware of it and still wanted to be friends with her, a half-elf 'get', which seemed to be shorthand for 'illegitimate child' - or 'whelp'. Some presumed Gorion had an affair up until the point her mother was mentioned as a half elf, at which point, there were sage nods and 'ah's, as if that explained everything, as if her mother was somehow a trollop and Gorion had shown charity far beyond anything she deserved. And Imoen? Imoen just shrugged, tried to cheer her up, and continued as if nothing was wrong.

That was why they could never be best friends, why they could only ever be 'friends', but Imoen was still the only 'friend' Hecharna had.

As she stared out against the small crashing waves breaking against the surf, she knew Imoen would have made different choices, encouraged her down a different path. She wouldn't have wanted her to keep such company, would have sympathised with Kivan, allied herself against Edwin and tried to spare the witch's life; she would have pushed for Melicamp to be restored, probably fallen headlong over heels for Garrick, shared kisses and secrets without committing, had him recite poetry to her, composed for her, and she, Hecharna would once again have been on the outside. But then, it wasn't as if she ever let anyone in, as Imoen kept telling her. How could she? But no one knew she was a half elf 'get' here; no one knew anything about her… and they wouldn't. She wouldn't let them.

Kivan never shared anything about his life, his Deheriana, or even the vengeance he wished to visit upon Tazok. Edwin rarely spoke except to brag about how grandiose his intellect was compared to the rest of the 'simians'; the less Xzar spoke, the better; Garrick was always on about how glorious life was, and Kagain was in constant need of an ale. She was too, if she was honest, but she couldn't afford such indulgences: she had to keep her mind sharp, free, and clear. Otherwise she'd get caught with her proverbial – or literal – pantaloons down. It was all very well for Imoen to sneak a drink from behind the bar, or from Hull, wheedling and weaselling her way, but the second she, Hecharna dared to reach for even a taste of Imoen's pilfered apple cider? They had her scrubbing the stables for two tendays, even when Imoen stood up for her, then insisted on pitching in.

Her jaw clamped. What was the point of revisiting all of this? Imoen was gone and she was never coming back; even if she did, she would have found her way through all of this, gritty determination framed with a smile, facing all the troubles and trials, the challenges and defeats, and she still would have come out on top. She was smarter, wittier, and people liked her. She had even sold her life trying to be there for Hecharna. The gods must be laughing; if anyone should have lived, it would have been Imoen, not her. Imoen would have woken from the dreams with a smile, laughter, dancing around, never giving into the promise of power, whether in dreams or in life. Imoen was just… better. She always had been. And there was part of Hecharna that had always, always resented that, from the very first day Gorion returned with Imoen. There was never a day when Imoen hadn't brightened everyone's life – just as there was never a day when 'crooked teeth' Hecharna didn't darken the moods of everyone around her.

She bit back the urge to spit and spoil the pristine sands. The beauty was just an illusion, she decided bitterly; out here, despite the apparent calm, there were gales lurking just behind the next rise, sirines waiting to ambush the unwary traveller, to charm them into being their slave and mating with them before drowning them in the very waves they rose out from. That was the reality of life. Even a short trip to the beach had resulted in the deaths of hobgoblins, ogres, ogrillons, sirines, and a dread wolf. She wasn't going to include the flesh golem in that count as it wasn't technically 'alive'.

But that was the world, wasn't it? For all the apparent peace, of the forest trees, there were giant spiders, animated skeletons, and bandits, all ready to prey upon her. There were kobolds who slew miners, their wives and children, and then, in the towns, there were the merchants who marked down anything she had by a factor of three, while simultaneously marking up the very same wares they held. Was it any wonder that she was the way she was? But somehow, Imoen only ever found the positives, laughing and telling her to keep her chin up, that it didn't matter. Nothing ever touched Imoen… until that gnoll halberd bit into her face.

Hecharna realised the damp stinging her cheeks was not from the ocean spray but instead brine had pooled beneath her own eyes and trickled down. Furiously, her knuckle dashed it away before anyone could see such weakness. Garrick would offer consolation and inquire if she was all right; Kivan would offer silence or some short word; Kagain might grunt and maybe, just maybe offer her a drink, Xzar would be confused and intrigued by her tear-ducts and Edwin would scoff. Even Dusty would make fun of her. Gods, how had she even summoned Dusty? Why couldn't she have had a nice ferret? Was that really so much to ask for? A friend to snuggle and cuddle at nights and during wet, rainy days, during the cold, bitter nights? Just to sit in an armchair with and drape him around her neck as a living scarf? Why couldn't they have given her that at least? Instead she got some horrid mephit that was always mocking her, always backtalking her, who laughed in her face when she tried to show him compassion. Maybe it was just a reflection of who she was instead of what she wanted.

Maybe Imoen was wrong and no matter how much she wanted to be something else, that awful dream was right and she was made as she was. Maybe the only thing she was good at, truly good at, was killing people and letting those around her march to their deaths.

But was that so wrong, a small, separate part of her wanted to know.

She marched towards the treeline; the time for resting was over. Xzar jerked up from his rockpool, fishing with a long white entrail from some sea slug or snail; Edwin scowled and sneered from his spellbook; Garrick had quietly been composing something and humming various words as he stroked the back of Melicamp's neck; Kivan kept watch on the trees and the sea alike, and Kagain dangled his feet of a rock ledge, tankard in hand. Sometimes she wondered what they all thought of her, what they really thought of her; sometimes she wondered if Kagain actually drank ale at all, or simply nursed an empty mug. So much for her trip. Maybe she should just storm the mine and bring an end to it all, only, it wasn't going to end with this hidden mine in Cloakwood; there was still the Iron Throne and this Sarevok, and whoever he or she happened to serve. Maybe she should just pay a visit to that halfling village Imoen was always blathering about, how desperately the human had wanted to go and enjoy the 'hearth and home' of the half folk. There were probably assassins waiting there for her too.

Shoal, who wasn't part of this tale, didn't have her feet in the lapping waves, because she wasn't there. But if she was, that was certainly what she'd be doing, just as Hecharna would have adorned the Nereid's shawl.

[…]


	16. Chapter 5, part 5

**Chapter 5, The Journey West**

Heading back towards Beregost, this time from a more southernly point than due east of High Hedge, Hecharna was once again accosted by bandits. It appeared that simply dispersing their camp hadn't quite rid the Sword Coast in the manner she'd hoped. So she, Kagain, and Kivan mutually agreed it was time to take some more scalps, each for different reasons, although, if she were honest, she and Kagain both shared a love of coin, though hers was more for security than avarice.

_But you know,_ Hecharna thought, she could rekindle her purse which had been somewhat depleted and there were ankhegs to hunt. Maybe more shipwrecks to find. Maybe Garrick had heard of ruins or some other interesting bardic piece of lore… not that Garrick was the most reliable; indeed, all she really could rely on was how unreliable he was. Stupid boy, she sighed inwardly. Perhaps… perhaps she should venture to the Friendly Arm Inn and see if Gorion's friends, Khalid and Jaheira had ever made it. By now, they would surely have moved on. If they weren't dead. Since there were assassins in other taverns, it was pure sentimentality to make a move on the Friendly Arm, not without some kind of disguise but by now her entire band were known. Maybe she should keep her head low. The coast was disappointingly bland, so perhaps east of Beregost would prove more interesting? Or perhaps she was simply stalling. Either way, she had to make a decision. Cut east, circle around, find some more ankhegs and maybe, just maybe, she'd figure out her next move. As long as they kept on looting, her little merry band should be content for a while and chasing bandits seemed like a fair enough ploy for now.

Why was she so afraid of entering the woods? Was she really not prepared? Or was it something else? That dream… the woods opened up before her. But dreams were meaningless, weren't they?

[…]

As Hecharna led her group, she spied a lighthouse in the far distance, and curiosity getting the better of her, she went to investigate, slew a trio of worgs only to discover the turreted structure, the two outsides and the wall surrounding the complex had long ago been abandoned. There was no pirate booty, no cache, no underground hidden cellars where wreckers hid out and stashed booze, nothing.

In fact, as she was leaving, all there was was a peasant woman who kept thanking her profusely for saving her son, the boy having been playing 'explorer' and gotten himself trapped in the upper storey of the lighthouse. In spite of her usually sour mood, Hecharna couldn't help but feel just a little rueful: had she not been playing at exactly the same? The only difference was she was armed to the teeth and had a coterie of shields surrounding her. The woman's husband made 60 gold at market during the past week and this was thrust into her hands. A flash of shame crept through her; certainly these peasants could afford it, but Imoen with her happy-go-lucky smile would have cracked a witticism, tousled the boy's hair, winked, and probably tossed the purse back over her shoulder to the mother saying that that was what heroes did or some naïve spiel.

Hecharna vowed she was done with the coast and the seaside. She stalked away before she could change her mind. The lighthouse would've made a decent enough camp, for a couple of nights at least.

[…]

As they wound and went their way, Kivan leading them, a pair of ogres was foolish enough to cross their paths. Neither lasted very long, Hecharna venting her frustration on a foe six Kagains high, and Kagain was only a little shorter than she. She left the bloodied, mangled, still-warm corpses without a thought, and not feeling even remotely better. Instead she tried to focus on how she didn't need to compare herself to Imoen, and that if Imoen had been here, she'd be teasing her about getting with a boy and why she hadn't yet, and maybe she couldn't and… Hecharna wanted to scream and rip her hair out. Instead her tread became sharper as her boots slapped the ground. Even Kagain had a hard time matching these black moods.

[…]

A sage, Pallonia, waylaid Hecharna and did even less to brighten her to a sunny disposition and simply yelled at her. Without bothering to hear what the fool had to say, she shoved past him and continued along the hunting trail that served as a path.

[…]

The parting trees revealed a stone marker, one that held a wooden sign warning of an excavation nearby. For some reason, a hobgoblin and its lackeys, a sextuplet of kobolds, had planted themselves there and after the whole 'money or your life' routine, Hecharna left them to rot on the ground without bothering to bless the dead and prevent them from raising again; Xzar hastily muttered some words, healed himself and hurried after her.

It took great courage for Garrick to tug on her arm, both of his looping around her bicep, or possibly great stupidity, and it took even greater restraint to keep her from throwing him to the ground and planting her boot on his neck. Had it been anyone other than Garrick, she wouldn't have held back. For an instant, she thought she saw Imoen in those earnest, bright brown eyes utterly devoid of sense, and something in her just drooped. Her whole stomach plummeted and an abrupt weariness seized and held her. Garrick merely pointed towards the excavation, as if he thought she might find it of interest; something in him fell too, and she forced a quiet smile. It was enough to lift the stupid boy and once again, life was glorious, instead of being a whipped puppy cowering in a puddle of its own piddle…

The scholar in her wasn't so easily deterred and a spark of interest grew into an inferno, the scholar's curiosity as great as the artist's craving for creation. And so, off they tromped, Kivan silent, Kagain sullen, his head low, Edwin scoffing but also secretly intrigued, and Xzar scanning and surveying for exhumed remains or whatever it was Xzar searched for with those maddened, wild eyes. The green-robed mage still yibbered at the skull he had taken near High Hedge, almost as if he expected it to reply to him.

Beyond the last of the trees stood an ancient structure wrought in stone, cut slabs laid atop one another, a forecourt afront a semicircle that should have borne the sigil of a noble leader or deity, the excavation site.

Heading this dig was a man called Charleston Nib, a rude and demanding fellow at first, and Hecharna took an instant dislike to him, bristling at once again being insulted when she had done naught but pause to gaze upon the splendour of the unearthed stones. The man quickly backed down and apologised, citing bandit raids, somewhat mollifying her ill-humour. At this rate, her 'inner Imoen' quipped, she would make a worse dwarf than Kagain.

The man was as cheap as the rest of the abominable merchants, offering a paltry fifty gold for their service, but at the look of sheer disgust and outrage that stemmed from Hecharna's rapidly darkening eyes, he swiftly increased this to a hundred. That was more acceptable, and so, for the sake of advancing knowledge, as was her deity's mandate, she agreed. Perhaps she might find favour in Oghma's eyes or maybe she'd simply stumbled upon some ancient cursed site, which is why it was abandoned. Well, she'd find out.

As she was minding her own business, Kagain resting against his axe, Kivan standing near the trees, brooding as usual, Garrick singing to Melicamp, Edwin muttering about something or other, and Xzar muttering about something else, a man named Gallor sought her out.

"Why, hello there. Could we step aside a moment and have a little chat away from prying ears?"

Not like he left her much of a choice as he just launched into his little pitch.

"First, my name is Gallor. Second, we never had this conversation. I'm the 'partner' of that old mister Charleston you met, except I'm none too thrilled about the non-profit aspects of the whole thing. The old man seems to think we should donate all our findings to some museum, whereas I am ever so much more practical. I should think certain people would pay dearly for the magical treasure we are about to unearth, and if they would be so eager, who are we to stand in their way? I would like you tosteal the item and 'remove' Mr. Nib from my little equation. You up to the task?"

Why did everyone think she was a murderer?! Choosing to purse her lips in the poutiest manner she knew, a trick learnt from Imoen that never seemed to work for her, Hecharna, allowed her eyes to widened. "Magical treasure? I was under the impression that no one knows what is to be found there. Why are you so sure of its value?"

"Old Mister Nib would never admit it, but that is mainly because he doesn't wish to jinx the dig. From what I could decipher in the ancient writings, the final room contains 'the plate that provides bounty, leading you unto god'. Doesn't take a genius to figure out what that means. Obviously, the item under all that dirt and rubble is enchanted such that 'it provides bounty'. Whether it's through increased crops or good hunting, I care not. Regardless, an object of that age and enchantment should command a heft price and I intend to see that it does. You can be part of that if you wish."

The scholar in her answered, "It's a very sketchy description that you offer. I should think that different deities would require different 'bounty' to be delivered. Do you know if this ancient one preferred 'bounty' that we find valuable?"

Retorted he, "I care not whether the primitives who lived here worshipped chickens and the plate produces fodder! It does not matter! What DOES matter, is that we potentially have an item associated with a god long since lost to the mists of time. Its former enchantments may not even work, but it will still command an exorbitant price from a historian or collector. Do you wish for a piece of the pie or don't ya?"

She was still not a murderer. These men were purveyors of knowledge, and slaughtering them would go against the very tenets she believed in. Also, she didn't like this man's tone, or his familiarity, as if she should be bought so easily. Speaking of, what _was_ the price he was offering for this bloodshed? 900 gold? Was that all? She just knew Nashkel had shortchanged her! Clearing the mines… Nine hells. Well, she would agree for now, if only not to tip him off; she had no intention of going through with it.

The charm spell struck Gallor. All he said was: "I don't have much to tell you that would be a surprise. I got roped into helping fund this ridiculous old man, and now he won't use what he finds for profit. I'd rather have the whole dig to myself."

In other words, he was nothing more than a thug, a _merchant_. Inside the sanctum, one of the workers asked Nib how old the place was: five thousand years, answered the archaeologist, claiming that the "very gods of Netheril would have been young at that time."

Then the diggers, one after the other, started complaining of a headache, of hearing a voice in their heads…

It just wasn't going to be a bright dawn for the advancement of knowledge, was it? Hecharna sighed to herself. 'Some things should stay buried', someone had told her once, but that went against everything her god stood for.

"I hear the hollow voice, but it is but a mumble! Speak up! Speak up and guide mine hands! RAAAAAAGH!"

Another: "You… I see what you are! There is power to be had from your death! Your blood will quiet the voice! BLOOD WILL QUIET!"

Oh for the love of – why was he screaming at her? Without a further word, she gestured irritably towards Kagain, whose axe stood ever at the ready.

"KOZAH A PLET 'DAR CASS TOGLAH! KOZAH!"

That damned Gallor had better pay up after all of this.

[…]

The miners did not last long when they were unarmoured and Hecharna, Kivan, Kivan, Garrick and Xzar were. Edwin insisted on sporting 'fashionable' robes, which he claimed were enchanted, but armour they were not. In any event, shovels made for poor opponents and unable to break the madness they had fallen to, the band defended themselves – violently. A shaken Nib, who somehow managed to survive, perhaps because the miners seemed to be targeting her for some unknown reason, relayed:

"I… I think I can explain the madness that overcame my men. They seemed to scream in some ancient tongues, but I recognise the word 'Kozah'. It's the name of an ancient power, the name of a god of Pandemonium. The tribe that lived here must have worshipped Kozah and the destruction he brought. The artefact that lies within this stone sarcophagus must be what caused all of this bloodshed. Surely that artefact is cursed beyond belief! Please make sure it is within its proper place and we will seal the entrance. It's best that it never sees the light of day."

Or, Hecharna inwardly thought, Nib could pay up, and it might be better to move the artefact since Gallor knew where it was. It might be best to put a blade through him but she still wasn't a murderer. Besides, another bunch of tome robbers would come along at some point.

"It's sad, really." Nib lamented. "I had south to bring a little life back to a long extinct people, and look what I wrought. Certainly some things are better off remaining dead."

Like Gallor, Hecharna thought grimly. Ordinarily, she was all about coin but she enough to get by on, and something about Gallor rubbed her the wrong way: the callous contempt for life, or perhaps, the assumption she'd be willing to murder, and based on what? Her looks? She wasn't a murderer. Did everyone really think so little of her? Over and over they seemed to think she'd be willing to do someone in and while she didn't hold life as a general concept in very high regard, and there were actually a number of people she wouldn't waste her piss on or even care if they died, it didn't mean she'd end them prematurely. Of course, there were a couple of individuals she'd very much like to inflict a slow, drawn-out demise upon. After all, there was those who wanted _her_ dead, and the man in armour who slew Gorion. Also gnolls, but they barely counted as sapient lifeforms; more vermin that needed to be put down like the rabid hound-headed monstrosities that they were. Maybe that was the elf in her.

"Here is your pay for the time you spent here. Your services are no longer required. Everyone pack up! We are leaving this accursed place!" Nib dismissed her carelessly.

This would be the moment, she realised, either to warn him or spit him, a rat on a skewer. No one would know; everyone would assume he was just possessed by this 'KAZOH'. She didn't much care for him, his attitude, but he was in the service of acquiring knowledge. Gallor on the other hand…

"Yes, we should leave. You should watch out for Gallor. He hired me to kill you, but enough blood has been spilled this day."

_Now, what was all this fuss over… oh, how interesting; a stone idol. Yes,_ thought Hecharna, this is what it was all about. Perhaps she could find a seller, deprive Gallor of his prize, or perhaps she would cast it into the sea, or the next deep pit she found. Or maybe she'd just keep it on a proverbial shelf. All that nonsense about how her death would – what was the phrasing? There was power to be had from her death. Why hers specifically? Why did people want to kill _her_?

Her grasp like steel, she hoisted the idol from the sarcophagus, heedless of her companions, and held it at eye-level. _Tell me_, she willed, never blinking as she met its cold, pupil-less stare, _tell me what is so special about _me_? Tell me you damn voice; if there's any part of you left, KOZAH, what am I that you would hunt me? Tell me before I smash you into itty-bitty pieces, grind you up, feed you to Edwin and have you defecated out. No? Nothing?_

Very quietly, she growled, bringing the idol close to her lips, "Kozah a plet 'dar cass toglah. Kozah."

Nothing. Disgusted, she spat into the idol's unblinking eye, then stuffed it down her pack, rudely shoving Dusty aside. Dusty, who had been sleeping, squawked in indignation. "Don't touch," she warned in a low, cold voice, "Or Kozah might eat you."

"Whatever you say, boss."

[…]

"IthNal cOR dan osa KOZAH! Rrrackne dall'a osa KOZAH!" The ghostly armoured doomsayer intoned, appearing out of the treeline.

"Speak ye gibberish as ye will; the end will be ta same! Die, ye unnatural beastie!" Spake Kagain in a rare fit of vocalisation. The ale must have run out.

"Sssstormss shall bring doom to theee… Idollll so commandssss…. Echtah tuln no osa KOZAH!" The doomsayer might have been dead for five thousand years, a shadow of itself from life; the spectre's words sounded more in her mind than aloud.

Hecharna didn't even bother. It seemed everyone was so determined to get the last word in, to have their witticism, that she just unleashed her invocations.

"I really don't feel so great… THE VOICES ARE SCREAMING… AHHHH! BLOOD QUIETS! Q' AL TE-PAH KOZAH! She CAL KOZAH!" Screamed Gallor.

Maybe that was the difference, Hecharna mused; Nib was a scholar, willing to let the accursed idol stay lost within the ground, whereas Gallor was willing to kill for his own gain. But what did that say about the rest of the crew? Perhaps they were weak willed. Then what of Garrick? Too absent minded? Kagain? Too focused on his ale and his purse? Xzar too insane, Edwin too self-absorbed? Kivan too driven by revenge? Maybe her whole band were just delinquent misfits too broken for even Kozah to sway? It didn't matter; Kozah's minion was still going to die.

The trouble was almost everything against was ineffective: Xzar's signature life-leech did nothing; neither did the command to sleep. No one could land a single strike on the thing, and the monstrosity slashed first Hecharna, then Kivan, each backing up, their comrades closing the gap while Xzar healed them, as had become their unspoken tactic. Closing ranks to protect each other – but the healing was limited. The doomsayer seemed to defy everything they possessed but then tiny pinkish-red orbs shot from Garrick's fingers and blasted the thing, causing it to stagger backwards. This was at Melicamp's urging, and once again, Garrick unleashed the same and so fell the doomsayer. Were it not for Melicamp, they would all be dead, for it had been the talking chicken, Thalantyr's former apprentice, that had taught Garrick the spell and uttered the arcane syllables with him, guiding him to victory.

* * *

Kagain: Attacks Doomslayer

Garrick: Singing Bard Song

Kagain: Attack Roll 2 + 1 = 3 : Miss

Doomsayer: Attack Roll 14 – 2 = 12 : Hit

Kivan: Takes 6 slashing damage from Doomsayer

Kivan: Takes 5 fire damage from Doomsayer

Melicamp the Chicken: Attacks Doomsayer

Hecharna: Larloch's Minor Drain : Doomsayer

Doomsayer: Unaffected by effects from Larloch's Minor Drain

Melicamp the Chicken: Attack Roll 19 + 0 = 19 : Miss

Hecharna: Attacks Doomsayer

Doomsayer: Attack Roll 7 – 2 = 5 Miss

Kivan: Attack Roll7 + 0 = 7 : Miss

Doomsayer: Critical Hit Averted

Doomsayer: Attack Roll 20 – 2 = 18 : Hit

Kivan: Takes 6 slashing damage from Doomsayer

Kivan: I don't know how much longer I can go on.

Kivan: Takes 5 fire damage from Doomsayer

Kivan: I don't know how much longer I can go on.

Melicamp the Chicken: Casts Magic Missile: Doomsayer

Doomsayer: Takes 2 magic damage from Melicamp the Chicken

Doomsayer: Takes 4 magic damage from Melicamp the Chicken

Doomsayer: Takes 4 magic damage from Melicamp the Chicken

Doomsayer: Death

The party Has Gained Experience: 4000

Garrick: Stopped Singing Bard Song

* * *

With Gallor dead and not a single coin of the promised 900 gold in sight, well, 23 gold. What a waste of time. Irritably, Hecharna gestured that Kivan resume guiding the group over the hills and far away, far, far away from here, except… six gnolls. Six dead gnolls. There was no such thing as a 'good gnoll' nor a tolerable one, but a dead one was marginally acceptable. Marginally.

Curiously, there was an 'arrow of detonation' amongst the slain, along with a 'stinking cloud' spell scroll, and a 'burning hands' one. Naturally, Xzar got the first scroll, Edwin the second, and both were pleased as punch, or as pleased as a smugly self-satisfied Thayvian convinced of his own infinite superiority could be. Hecharna half expected him to be travelling around with a coterie of slaves there to erect a tent spun of calishite silk, carpets of velvet, incense censers, golden braziers, and clad in loincloths as they waved peacock-feathered fans at him and fed him grapes as he lounged upon a divan, lord and master of all (not just what he surveyed, not that those useless simians would ever comprehend such a notion).

Inwardly, her eyes rolled skywards; a small chuckle rumbled deep inside her: Edwin hadn't nearly been so superior when the sea's bounty disagreed with him… the memory of him frantically hitching up his red robes, emblazoned with gold, and desperately pelting towards the rockpool as the fare spilt out of both ends was both disgusting and amusing in equal measure: the stink was worse than any spell Xzar could conjure… probably. She didn't want to put that to the test. Of course, now, Edwin acted as if the incident had never occurred, looked annoyed at the mention of his delicate tummy, and waved his hand and made some comment about 'sophisticated' and 'refined' palettes that they couldn't hope to understand. Well, he could choke on their 'inferior' reds as he wasted his coin on swill. No one was forcing him to drink. She certainly chose to abstain and if anyone had reason to drink, was it not her?

Through the trees Kivan continued to lead them… and then the sight of swarming flies greeted them, and beyond, a shattered caravan, even as Garrick's hand rose to his mouth in revulsion. She felt herself throw up in her mouth a little, the acidic burn against the back of her throat. The stench of the dead wafted and lay heavy; Kivan froze in place. It was unlike him to be so absorbed that he missed his surroundings, or perhaps, this really was the only way forwards?

Either way, they were met by one Laryssa, begging for the life of her cousin, Brage… Brage… Kagain muttered he'd heard about him in a tavern, but he couldn't recollect where or why. Unbelievably helpful, there, Kagain, Hecharna thought. Garrick charmed her, as had become his signature move, and it turned out that Laryssa was a cleric but was unable to reason with Brage. She described him as though possessed – which, given what they had just seen did not seem unreasonable or out of the ordinary, Hecharna mulled. It was strange that Laryssa could not bear to stand by and observe their dealings with Brage as Garrick entreated him – Garrick, of course being a foolish choice, but Edwin, with his superior intellect stepped in, cutting the bard short. Sometimes the incessant need to prove himself actually worked out in Hecharna's favour.

Brage posed a riddle: "It has neither mouth nor teeth, yet it eats food steadily. It has neither village nor home, neither hands nor feet, yet it wanders everywhere. It has neither country nor means nor office nor pen, yet it is ready for fight – always. By day and by night, there is wailing about it. It has no breath, yet to all it appears."

Obviously, the answer was greedy money grubbin' merchants, but Edwin cut Garrick off but Xzar interrupted in his looming, oddly tilting spindly lurch, "Death."

"Obviously death, you moronic simian!" Edwin snapped, cheated out of a chance to show off his innate superiority.

Then Xzar started chittering about rabbits, disgusting the Thayvian even more, so much so Edwin threw his hands up in the air with a loud 'Bah!', even as Brage started rambling on about 'the end of night' and some other stuff Hecharna had absolutely no interest in. Surprisingly, it was Kivan that chimed in, a sentiment swiftly echoed by Garrick, about returning the poor man to the temple of his town. The man's plight must have struck a chord with the elf. Hecharna couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. _Back in Nashkel, again? Would she ever be free of this damnable backwater…? Kozah a plet 'dar cass toglah. Kozah. _– Her new favourite curse.

[…]

* * *

**A/N: I actually finished 99.5%* of this chapter last night – at 3am, and I've had to wait until now (17:35) before I can finish the last section! **

***At least what I thought was 95% of this chapter. I reached the doomsayer fight – I really didn't know if Hecharna and co. could handle it, but I'm pleased they did! **

**I'll post the party stats later.**


	17. Chapter 5,part 6

**Chapter 5, part 6**

Hecharna found herself staring into the golden bowl on the alter and saw herself gazing back. Imoen compared her to a willow tree, wispy, frail, stretchy, and elastic. Wiry, taut muscles, bunched, ropey; too thick to be elfin, too slight to be human. Her diminutive frame held the worst of both sides of her ancestry. She got ill easily, and she burnt in the sun; her breasts were small, her hips, somewhat rounded, felt blockish and square. Tunics slid over her, too large, like most of her clothes; leggings also too large, too wide at the hip, too snug at the thigh. Imoen – why was she always comparing herself to Imoen? Imoen developed first, developed faster, and had a chest years earlier than she had, and never had trouble with clothes, except for when she did, and then Phlydia went to great lengths to fix it for 'that sweet child', Imoen's endearing smile being worth more than gold. But Hecharna's own? She might as well have been slapped upside the head for the cold reception she always received; she had to sew up her own clothes, which, Imoen did too, but Phlydia taught Imoen how to sew and indifferent to the practice, Imoen was only ever passable. Imoen had to teach Hecharna.

She needed a friend. A real, actual friend, not someone she'd always be in the way of, not another Imoen, whose very shadow was brighter than Hecharna's full self. Maybe self-loathing was as unattractive as Imoen claimed, that being bitter only made everyone else bitter, but Hecharna didn't know any other way. No one offered her a helping hand, no one ever paused to even think about lending her one. Phlydia may have given her the series of 'the talk', but there was always that implication that she was already a lost cause, that she would undoubtably engage in everything Phlydia was warning her away from. It was so unfair and it still stung. When had Hecharna ever done anything? The most she'd done was find a quiet corner to sit and read in, or get herself too sweaty, too dirty, too dusty sparring with the Watchers, climbing trees and skipping stones, treading surf with Imoen. It was fine for Imoen to play with wooden swords and run around, but not her. In fact, the only job anyone ever considered her for was running errands and killing rats.

The only person who had ever done her hair was Imoen. The only person to teach her about kohl was Imoen, and kohl looked so absurd on her that everyone gave her this ludicrous look and she had scrubbed it off her crimson face, but Imoen? Everyone complimented her. No one compared her to an overladen sow or a starving cow when Imoen had her lanky growth spurt, or when she had pimples; no one minded when Imoen lopped her hair off and laughed about it, or when she plucked too much of her eyebrows. Everyone said how brave Imoen was for piercing her own ears; they ignored that Hecharna was there and they made a pact, each piercing their own lobe at the same time. Instead, they ridiculed her and called her 'reckless', 'foolish' and deserved any infection she got. That they expected no less from an uncouth child. Even when she and Imoen wore matching ribbons, all she got was sneers. So she stopped wearing ribbons, stopped wearing earrings, stopped braiding her hair because no one cared anyway.

Maybe that's why she had allowed Safana to die. Why was it still hurting so much? She'd seen so much death and inflicted a fair amount but Imoen's loss still tore at her the most. She barely considered Gorion, but Imoen was constantly in her thoughts.

During her ruminations, the priest, Nalin, was blathering on about something this or that; Hecharna hadn't any say in bringing Brage to the temple: that decision was made solely by Kivan and Garrick, and while no monetary reward was forthcoming, their fame would spread and that in itself would bring further fortune.

Truthfully, Hecharna had no issue with it, and since it meant she didn't have to deal with that windbag bounty officer, she saw it as a win. Kagain and Edwin, however, grumbled over this 'charity', and she was in no mood to deal with their petty bickering. In fact, she had had quite enough of it. It was time for a sit down and a time out, she decided, as soon as they returned to Beregost. Kagain's shop might seem like the most obvious place for assassins to strike, but they'd been away for a while and perhaps it was time that Kagain started his business up again – only, instead of guarding caravans, it should be for her benefit. Maybe it was time to recruit a few new shields to her cause. There was always a danger in that though: too many and travelling became unwieldy, not to mention different warring personalities, and the fact that each and every one of her mooks could be a traitor, whether planted or simply turning on her. She had to lead and keep leading, and that meant a steady supply of loot, whether pilfering ancient troves or plundering the freshly slaughtered: arcane knowledge, gold, armours and weapons. This is what held her group together: Kivan was content as long as there were bandits to avenge his frustrations on; Kagain was content as long as there was gold; Edwin was never content but begrudgingly accepted arcane lore, and Oghma only knew what Xzar wanted. And then there was Garrick, poor, foolish little Garrick and his chicken friend. What was she going to do with them?

Or with Shoal for that matter. A problem for another day. Still, it was time for a change: not necessarily long term, but just for a few days, to clear her head, before they stormed Cloakwood. Splitting the group was probably a mistake; chances are she might not ever see them again, but the disgruntlement needed to be settled. Whenever Imoen would grate too much on her nerves that left Hecharna more waspish than usual, the best solution was to climb a tree, sit atop the tallest tower, watch the waves and stare out towards Cloakwood. After a while, Imoen would realise the error of her ways and eventually come and apologise, providing Hecharna missed enough meals. At first, Imoen would assume her friend was just sulking, sullen, or 'on the rag' as 'Puffguts' so indelicately put it, the vulgar sack of troll lard that he was, but as the hours lengthened and one dusk turned into the next, Imoen would realise just how grievous her offence was and she'd make an effort to make amends and at least try to be nicer.

Of course Edwin would never behave in such a manner, nor would she expect him to; but Kagain and a few ale barrels might mollify his mood. Kivan would simply continue hunting without her, so it was best to keep his focus on the immediate. Xzar could probably be distracted talking to that skull of his at least for a few days and that might do everyone a world of good. Kagain could babysit the Zhent agent, and as long as she was acting in the greater commercial interest, Kagain would accept it. Perhaps restarting the business would be exactly what the dwarf needed. And when she was ready, she would return, call upon his services, and march onwards, perhaps towards their deaths. But it never hurt to have a backup plan; ever since she lost Imoen and Montaron, she had been scrambling, desperately recruiting any and all help but now she needed to plan.

She had the gold, the equipment, and the time: marshalling a force to be reckoned with, a warband that would strike, and having a headquarters – well, that was dangerous in and of itself, that would provide a sense of security, a sense of communal hearth and hall. That might be enough to help still the griping and bickering; even if it didn't, it would provide a sense of purpose. Distractions, distractions, distractions: that's all she had to keep doing: keep everyone distracted until she figured out what in the Nine Hells was actually going on; act like a leader until she was a leader, keep everyone working for her, making coin, until she could decide what to do beyond the next day or two. And… a darker thought held her mind, if Kagain's shop was attacked and some of her shields were present, those responsible would take word back to their superiors and they might believe that she, Hecharna, had perished… and if she could fake her death, she was free to move unhindered. She could finally disappear. If it backfired, she'd be down valuable shields though. On the other hand, her shields might start battering each other; she was close to battering them.

So there it was: a plan, or a semblance of one. Edwin was coming with her, as was Kivan, and Garrick, and they were heading east, scouting out more bandits and claiming some scalps, a few days to clear her head. Kagain would sit tight, recruit some more for her cause, and Xzar would stay with him. It felt good to actually make a decision rather than having things forced on her. What she really needed was to figure out what she wanted, what she was doing, and how to do it. Kagain could also make some discreet inquiries into the Iron Throne and perhaps, she too, could begin stockpiling iron on the sly. Maybe when she got back, they could all go cull some ankhegs and make some coin.

Which reminded her, her ankheg plate should be ready by now.

[…]


	18. Chapter 5, part 7

**Chapter 5, part 7**

Garrick's pleas grated on Hecharna's nerves to the point where she simply gave in. During all the chatter, she had overlooked one critical element: there was a carnival just west of the town. Being a bard, young Garrick was desperate to see it; Kagain wanted to see if they had any ale, Kivan was indifferent, Edwin was convinced they had only parlour tricks, and therefore, it was another opportunity to show off his brilliance; Xzar… Xzar offered some sort of jibbering chitter that could have meant anything but she took it as assent.

Beregost would have to wait for an afternoon. Perhaps this was the 'circus' part of 'bread and circuses' the tome on self-improvement spoke of, Amnish bread and circuses, which apparently was a big thing in Athkatla, where the tome originated from. The tome on dieting spoke about the importance of nutritious fibres, and 'regularity', so perhaps the carnival had some decent bread too. Well, whatever, Hecharna didn't actually care enough to object and if it kept her troupe of travelling mooks happy…

In the carnival were a group of tents, each holding a different feature of interest. A snake-oil salesman pawning off potions, which Xzar and Garrick fell for, and Edwin showed an unusual curiosity with, although he attempted to be discreet – he was about as successful as a rutting pig in mud trying to keep quiet. She allowed them to have the hundred gold necessary for the two potions; another small price to pay. Sometimes it paid to appear benevolent. Then there was that idiot hedge wizard and another witch – it was like watching Edwin and Dynaheir all over again, only this time, the 'Great Zordral' or whatever his stupid name was, was the one who died, having taken offence to Garrick's line of questioning.

This is why Garrick wasn't allowed to speak. She really should have been paying more attention and kept all of them on a tight leash instead of letting them wander off; Edwin had been pestering the bard for reasons quite unknown to her, reasons she neither cared to hear or wanted to, and so, naturally, a pissing match occurred between the 'Great Zordral' and the 'Magnificence' that was the supreme authority of Edwin Odesseiron, may the whole of the realms bask in his radiance. It was actually the first time she had heard his full name. It was oddly fitting: a foolish name for an inflated fool. Anyway, Zordral ended up dead, the witch, Bentha or somesuch was grateful, and Garrick being the would-be gallant sir squire that he was declined all notion of reward, claiming that 'a good deed was reward enough.'

For that, Hecharna smiled through gritted teeth, dragged him behind the nearest tent, and cuffed him soundly. When his ears were as scarlet as Edwin's robes, she boxed them one final time and told him in no uncertain terms exactly what was expected of him, where his place was, and why offering charity set such a terrible precedent: as he writhed, whined and sobbed, Hecharna grated, spelling it out for him, that as soon as word got around that they _worked for free_, every farmer and his aunt from here to Neverwinter would take advantage and offer them menial tasks from now until the end of time. In one sentence, he had undone all they had been building since they had cleared the Nashkel mines.

Utterly abashed, he did apologise, even if he seemed confused. So Hecharna drew a long breath, calmly sat him down and went over exactly how Gallor had been willing to pay them 900 gold for the murder of the miners and his partner, Charleston Nib; Berrun Ghastkill, mayor of Nashkel offered the same reward for a great deal more work and far more risk; none of the town respected their achievement beyond a few fanciful words, no one had offered them the equipment they needed, and upon reaching Beregost, no one had paid them a single piece of gold for helping rid the woods of the bandits. Officer Vai had only posted a bounty on the bandits in order to strike terror into their hearts and have them think twice; it was never about _paying_ Hecharna and the rest of them for their work.

Why was this bad? She questioned as Garrick's dazed eyes failed to comprehend things. It was bad because they were risking their lives for doing the work of the Flaming Fist and no one was acknowledging it. It was bad because they had cleared an entire encampment and no one paid them. They had to maintain their equipment, purchase healing potions (which, to be fair, they hadn't because she had kept such a tight grip on the purse strings she ensured they made did with what they had: otherwise it set a bad precedent and encouraged them to take risks); rations, and rooms in the inn. None of it was cheap; the town should at the very least have given them free room and board in their finest rooms for life. Did anyone even buy them a single drink? Of course not. And that, she grated, was why they must never, ever offer anything for free, ever; was she completely, entirely, crystal clear?

Slowly, the young bard nodded, entirely abashed. Then she patted his shoulder; Imoen might have hugged him and ruffled his hair, but she wasn't Imoen. A patted shoulder was affirmation enough. She might as well have said 'good doggie'. It had the same effect; Garrick visibly brightened.

Stupid, stupid boy. And stupid her for knowing what he was like and not keeping a closer eye on him. Maybe she should invest in a collar and lead, except that carried connotations she didn't care to delve too deeply into: damn Edwin and his lewd insinuations. It wasn't enough that Mulahey poisoned the iron; Edwin had to poison her mind, as did Xzar. Grrrr. Just grrr. That was it, playtime was over: they could look in the last two tents and then they were marching back to Beregost, double-time, and if she ever saw Nashkel again, it would be too soon.

One merchant did carry an enchanted necklace but at 4,500 gold it seemed just a tad steep; was it really worth it? Her treasury stood at just over 18,000 but given the ankheg plate alone cost 4,000 gold… perhaps that idiot smith might make her a second suit, if she found another ankheg. But who knew how long the carnival was staying? Irritably, she grabbed it, knowing there was always more gold to be had.

The two larger tents were full of gaming tables, and irritably, Hecharna gave each of the 'boys' an allowance of twenty-five gold each. Kivan did not count as one of 'the boys', more as a living wraith whose spectre permanently darkened the brightest of days, and that was just how she liked it. The rest of them gobbled up this little treat like children licking candied apples in her cupped hands. Brats, insufferable brats; she realised she was sounding more and more like Edwin, and abruptly pulled herself short.

In the second large tent, a pathetic halfling attempted to steal from them – she was having none of it. A command spell, a sound pummelling from Kagain, and she left him there to lick his wounds as an example to all who would dare oppose them. There she was sounding like Edwin again. She gestured for Garrick to rifle through the thief's pockets, of course. Payment where payment was due, after all.

That resulted in around 173 gold, and a couple of potions, which was about what she had handed out to 'the boys'. Incredibly while Edwin squandered his, Xzar managed to win 360 gold at the roulette table, with a little loan from Garrick. Shaking her head, Hecharna let them keep it: Kagain's luck was down that day, which was nothing unusual. Refusing to hand out any more, she put her foot down and pointedly fixed her gaze on the tent door. Ignoring the sullen looks, she folded her arms until they fell into line. It was like herding cats. Dusty, of course, wanted to gamble but there was no way she was letting a mephit out in Nashkel, not after the whole kobold fiasco. Madness.

[…]

* * *

**A/N: I found a chicken! In the Nashkel faire. So Melicamp gets an upgrade! Our chicken now has an appropriate sound-set!**


	19. Chapter 5, part 8

**Chapter 5, part 7**

On the way out of the maze of tents, Xzar ran across a staue and became fascinated with it; Hecharna made the mistake of being distracted while Garrick spoke with a loud, blaggard of a gnome, while Edwin pretended not to listen. Clearly, she had trained the boy too well – Garrick, no longer a young man, but a boy in her eyes – and he charmed the gnome who was trying to profit of the petrified woman with a restore scroll into using it on her. Well, wonderful. Now she'd have to deal with this… curse her stupidity for ever wanting to recruit more. So who exactly was this woman, and how strong willed was she? Another Safana?

"I am Branwen, a war-priest from norheim Isles. I have been trapped in stone for what seems like an eternity. You have saved me, and for that I owe you my life. I am indebted to you, and by Tempus, I leave no debt unpaid! Let me join whichever cause you're fighting for, I should make a valuable ally and bring the favour of the Lords of Battles upon us."

…What an interesting turn of events. "We're always on the lookout for another warrior."

"I am glad to be part of your war party. I will not make you regret your decision. A word of caution though: Beware of the dog that entrapped me in stone. Tranzig, he called himself. He was in the employ of a mercenary group, but I do not know the name. I shall see him dead before I see the shores of home again!"

"You will be pleased to know that Tranzig has been dealt with." Hecharna demurred.

"By Tempus, can it be! To be freed by those who put an end to that fiend. A triumphant day indeed!"

There was something most unsettling about this war-priestess' boisterous, loud nature, Hecharna decided; she had only been freed from her stony embrace for what, half a minute, if that, and she was already making sweeping statements and colossal declarations. Debt or no, she was going to be an absolute nightmare if she kept this up… probably declare things about righteousness, honour, justice, and yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah. A female Edwin. Gods, that was all she needed. Maybe she was being too judgemental; she hadn't even given this woman a chance: first impressions were occasionally wrong. Oh, she was talking again… well, she could just wait in Kagain's shop.

Also, Hecharna thought darkly, exactly how competent was she if she was jumped by Tranzig? Anyone could be taken unawares, she supposed, but… Tranzig struck her as being a fawning lackey, simpering and inept: after all, had he not succumbed to Garrick's charm spell? Maybe this Branwen would be more of a liability than an asset, and yet having another cleric around never hurt. Better for her to stay put in the shop, set up a little shrine: their own personal temple. Yes, that's what she'd do.

Now onto Beregost to get her damnable ankheg plate before anything else interrupted her. And no, Edwin, Xzar, and Garrick, they absolutely were not stopping to see the 'amazing exploding ogre' – no, Edwin, it might not actually be amazing and yes, she was sure he could do better, which is why his service within the band was chosen over a mere monetary prize; what was that? Yes, yes, expected of course – Xzar, leave that cat alone; it might have fleas, yes, it did have a delicate bone structure; wasn't that cat by the waterfall enough? Kagain? Kagain…? There'd be ale back in Beregost. No, she hadn't seen a tent selling homebrew; of course it was absurd: what kind of fair lacked ale? Oh, that's where Kivan was – so quiet she almost missed him. And you, priestess personage, fall in step. Garrick had Melicamp, and was currently listening to some poet… gods… and Shoal wasn't technically there, so she wasn't disdainful, aloof and certainly hadn't been leered at and lusted over by Edwin, inspected by Xzar, stared at by just about everyone…

The road to Nashkel was relatively clear and without incident, except for one* idiot Flaming Fist who accused them of being bandits, despite it being widely known they were responsible for not only clearing the Nashkel mines but also the bandit encampment itself. Someone apparently missed the morning meeting; that or Officer Vai didn't care enough to inform her contingent. She'd probably take the credit for herself and use it to curry favour with her superiors, Hecharna thought bitterly.

* * *

***A/N: which BG:EE kindly increased to three. The original was a sole guard.**

* * *

"You there!" Declared he, "You're under arrest for banditry and highway robbery! We know you're part of that bandit group who's been terrorising the Coast Way. Give yourselves up, or there will be trouble."

"We give up," whined Xzar at his highest, most nasally, before anyone else could get a word in; each of them exchanging looks (except Kivan, who looked as dark and broody as usual).

Before Hecharna had a chance to explain they knew Officer Vai who would vouch for them, the lead fool declared:

"Good! Actually, boys, I don't think we should take these bandits in. They don't deserve the comforts of a cell. All they deserve is a quick execution."

And there it was: the corruption that soaked so deep that even the so-called protectors of the peace were petty tyrants. Was it really any surprise the Flaming Fist were so despised when there were thugs like this harassing innocent travellers?

Well, she took their plated mail, and once she claimed some more bandit scalps, she would say she salvaged this set too. It might be worth, oh, 250 gold if she was lucky, when those accursed merchants charged 900 gold a piece for it, but at the very least, this maniac wouldn't be butchering any more innocent travellers. What if it had just been her and Xzar? Or her and Imoen, fresh out of Candlekeep? They would have strung her up or worse. A seething resentment caused her guts to clench as inner fury broiled. Branwen had the good sense not to declare it a glorious battle for Tempus, because if she had, Hecharna might have left here there and then. As it was, they managed to tromp the rest of the way unhindered, which perhaps was just as well.

Upon their unannounced, inglorious entry back into Beregost, she all but stomped to the Smithy where her ankheg plate was indeed ready, and after fitting it her (the measurements already having been taken but the new straps needed adjusting and oiling), she found it fit her rather snugly. There was just enough room for her gambeson, and all that went under that, and it wasn't so tight her linens and self couldn't breathe. Was it worth the four thousand? Given she paid that much and five hundred for an amulet, she was tempted to say 'yes', but she'd have to try it in battle first. Of course, she had Kivan take a swing at it and the shell held. Had it not, she would have rounded on the smith savagely.

It was of a high enough quality that she might even invest in a couple more. But that was a thought for another day. Then they trekked back to Kagain's shop, which amazingly, had not been looted, nor was it infested by rats, beetles, spiders, or the like. Branwen was left at Kagain's store along with the dwarf, just as planned. Xzar wandered out after her and by the time she registered it, they were too far to turn back. Still, on they went and this time, they cut east.

Garrick, who had somehow found some note belonging to some woman's husband, asked to be let out and made inquiries as to where she lived. This time, having sent Edwin with him and instantly regretting the choice, Hecharna had Kivan tag along, hoping against hope the elf might be somewhat more responsible and if not, then at least his presence would prevent Edwin engaging in obvious carnal suggestions with the woman; the bard might remember they did not work for free. If he forgot, she would knuckle his head until he cried and kicked his feet as surely as if she'd taken a stick to him. Cracking those very knuckles and levelling him a dark look, she hoped she impressed upon the young bard a suitable sufficient warning; with that, she let them out, while she spoke with Branwen about the very real desire she had to have a bathhouse and loft extension constructed within Kagain's shop. That was the priestess' responsibility: to look into it and have it built. But how was the water to be heated? Hecharna didn't care. Magic, a wood stove and stones, gnomish tinkering, whatever it took, but get a quote first.

Garrick returned with an enchanted ring, grinning ear to ear, and Edwin's sullenness was a match for Kagain's, and Kivan looked morose. Everything reminded him of his loss, or revenge; one or the other, sometimes both. Inwardly, Hecharna reminded herself not to make light of the elf; did she not grieve for Imoen still, and they were only ever friends? It was then, as Garrick was chattering on, regaling her with the tale in epic prose, did she realise that this 'Mirianne' was 'one of the fair folk' – an elf. Something in her gave and she felt a fresh outpouring of sympathy for Kivan, and just a little ashamed of herself. She began to reach out to touch his shoulder, then halted herself and reined it in; he did not need sympathy nor did he want comfort: he needed to avenge his loss. Their eyes met and this time, hers held a greater understanding – and a promise. Kivan inclined his head without moving, and the understanding was shared.

[…]

Past the temple was nothing but wilderness, and predictably, within that wilderness were the scalps she was hoping for – or would have been, had they been human and not hoboblins. But hobgoblins they were, numbering eight or so, led by one 'Cattack', who insisted on giggling. Apparently, he'd missed the morning meeting for the Chill explaining that their camp had been ransacked and fired.

"Heee hee he ha! You no fight! You fight, you die! Give all gold and iron or you die! 'Tis simple choices! What I say, or die. Die die DIE!"

With a wry glance at her companions, not that Kivan found it amusing; not that he found _anything_ amusing, she simpered, "We'll not fight you. In fact, we want to join your group." It had worked once before.

"You no join Chill! Not even funny! 'Tis insult you die for!"

_I thought it was pretty funny, _Hecharna inwardly chortled._ No one else? But as soon as it's a story involving pee, or breasts, or their little forward tail, then Garrick looks mortified, Edwin looks indignant (and has to insist his is the best), Xzar giggles like a little girl, and Kagain guffaws uproariously, and even Melicamp clucks, but they're all snickering on the inside. Ugh. _

All the hobgoblins were put to the sword, of course, or in Melicamp's case, pecked and clawed. Garrick promised that he would wash the blood-speckled chicken in the very next body of water they found.

Once upon a time, she might have had the boys picked up the enemy's swords and leathers, but now? Now she just let Garrick loot their pockets and they simply moved on. A pack of worgs led by two vampiric wolves proved little match for the band, who was led into the fray by a roaring Melicamp, who took it upon himself to prove who was the bigger, badder wolf… (and would no doubt mark the stone pillar stating Beregost lay to the west of their current position, Hecharna muttered on the inside).

* * *

**A/N: Hecharna is currently level 3 in all of her classes; she is able to cast one level 2 spell as a mage, and two level 2 spells for her cleric class. As a fighter, she continues to hit things. She currently has a maximum HP of 25.**


	20. Chapter 5, part 9

**Chapter 5, part 8 – Eastward Bound**

Kivan apparently wasn't paying attention or his idea of 'searching for bandits' involved combing the regions before Larswood. Either way, the elf led them to a desolate, barren, acrid plain and put an arrow through the ghoul that tried to greet them. It was probably for the best.

At this point, Hecharna suggested that perhaps they head north instead, which they did, and then east, but their quarry eluded them.

It was then that they came upon what appeared to be a ruined temple: there was a raised mound of stone, with central stairs, and columns lining either end, but no alter. Reaching into her pack, Hecharna murmured, "Kazoh, Kazoooooh… no? Maybe… _Kozah a plet 'dar cass toglah. Kozah… Kazoh, Kazzzooooooh…_"

She could have sworn she felt the idol sulk. Mispronouncing its name on purpose was so incredibly petty it actually amused her more than it ought. Either way, what was of more interest were the red robed four atop the ruins. One actually called to Edwin by name:

"Good day, travellers."

It was actually dusk, almost nightfall. A whole day wasted searching for scalps.

"Mmm, Edwin. I did not expect to see you here so soon. I hope your… business has been attended to. If it wasn't, then you should deal with it soon. I think Zulkir Nevron would be most disappointed if he were to hear that you failed. That is all that really needs to be said. Good day again, and goodbye."

Well, tan her hide as red as their robes and drown her (sorrows) in a keg of firewine. Zulkir, huh? Now where could she have heard that before… oh, that's right, _Thay_. At this point, everyone without fail, except for Shoal (who wasn't present, but if she were, she would remain aloof and unconcerned), even Melicamp the chicken, but not Dusty, turned and fixed Edwin with an array of looks, ranging from considered, to sceptical, to suspicious, to 'ah, it all makes sense', as well as 'interesting'. The last was hers, of course. Of course everyone already knew but to hear it confirmed after so long was… illuminating. Indignation, that sour pride and self-conceit and perhaps just a little bit of apprehension crossed Edwin's face as he drew himself up, puffed out his chest, and did his best to imitate a peacock, although his peacock would be scarlet trimmed with gold, and better than anyone else's peacock. Any second and he would start preening about his magical superiority, and blah, blah, blah.

It was about that point that Kivan and her eye met and murmuring into Xzar's ear, she had the Zhent distract the Thayvian, postulating outrageously about some magic or other and taking their conversation elsewhere…

She might not be a murderer but sometimes, there were those too dangerous to be left to roam loose. So she decided to have a 'word' with the red robed individuals. Upon realising Edwin was nowhere to be seen, the leader of the little group declared that:

"We just can't afford to have anyone knowing that we're here. That is why you must die."

Clearly, they were of one mind and this particular Thayvian wasn't as stupid as her pet simian. Kivan loosed an arrow, just as she commanded one of the four to sleep; Melicamp charged with a berserker's fury, casting his magic as he did so, and battle was joined. After a short time, they prevailed, and the Thayvians were no more. It was perhaps her new ankheg that spared her from more grievous wounds, or perhaps she had simply grown accustomed to Thayvian tactics on account of Edwin; either way, their foes' robes got in their way and tripped them, with a small amount of help.

Maybe it was time to go back. What an unsuccessful outing. But first… there were four scalps to claim.

[…]

Along the way back, Hecharna ran into a woman who called herself 'Shar-Teel'. She demanded to duel the best male warrior in the party, which was naturally Kivan at this point, and he put three arrows in her before she even came close and she surrendered and joined as another shield. Perhaps this plan of hers did have some merit after all, Hecharna reflected. Branwen, Shar-Teel… who else could she enlist, she wondered?

After a few furious ankhegs (thirteen shells in all), some more gold (500x13), they headed on to Cloakwood. But between slaying the ankhegs, of which the majority were within a nest, wonderfully contained and easy pickings, Garrick ran across an old farmer; the young bard came rushing to Hecharna and proceeded, tearing up, to tell her a tragic tale of the loss of the old man's only son and now how he would lose the land…

Well, Hecharna agreed to search for the boy in the nest – she was headed there anyway, and the old man's fears were proven correct: his boy Nathan, a young man, had perished. But he had little business going into such a strange pit to begin with; ankhegs were huge. Maybe he and Marl should have a drink sometime and drown their sorrows. Well, she could sympathise a bit, but really, he had raised the boy and should have kept a tighter leash on him. Just like she was having to do with Garrick. It was all very sad, needless, but… hmm… sell the land, huh? What if she bought it? The old man was going to die at some point anyway. Those ankheg shells would bring her a tidy sum; she could hire the old man on as a caretaker, let him stay in his house until he died, hire the hands he required, and a portion of it would go to her. Everyone would happy. Except perhaps the old man's pride but at least he wouldn't go hungry. All in all, a good arrangement: the deed to the farmstead, farmhouse cottage, a field, three cows, a draught horse, and a few chickens.

She could also see the rising walls beyond the river to the city of Baldur's Gate. There was a lovely little bend in the river that might make for a beautiful beach, perhaps even a pier or a jetty, oh, there was so much potential. And then, as she was heading back towards Beregost, seven bandits sprang their feeble ambush. So ill-disciplined, so ill-kempt, with only rather leathers and brittle arrows on feeble bows, they fell like dried out grass before a scythe. Kivan shot two of them down before they could get a shot off; they didn't know when to scatter and run, but a single spell from Edwin sprayed all kinds of bloblets of colour at them and down they went… she did miss Kagain's axe, but Shar-Teel's swords made swift work of them. Seven scalps.

* * *

Treasury: 23,560. (Not including gems or other equipment)

* * *

Within the Cloakwood itself, there were many and a varied threats, but the most immediate, in Hecharna's mind was an elf who blocked their way on the bridge and attempted to tempt her with an offer of getting rich quickly: two thousand gold – for slaying a wyvern. Claimed he was hired by the Beregost mayor, that he knew where its nest was. Well, wasn't that a strange coincidence? It so happened that this was the very forest with the Iron Throne's mine and an elf just so happens to tempt them with profit and gain. Even if it was genuine, which she very much doubted, it was most certainly a trap: the Iron Throne likely had spies and probably kept an eye out for her and her little band and once they entered the nest, assuming they could slay the beast, they'd be jumped.

Kivan might not be too pleased at the notion of putting a shaft through the eyes of a fellow elf, but she murmured that this charlatan might easily be one of Tazok's lackeys. Could they take that chance? The grim-faced one answered by loosing an arrow, and the elf on the bridge, Coran, plummeted into the river and was swept away. Kivan understood. If it sounded too good to be true, it probably was.

Along the way, they ran into some goblin-like creatures, one of them sporting a cloak that matched the description from that dwarf in the Jovial Juggler, whatever his name was. It went in the pack. Hecharna would see just how much the dwarf was willing to pay to have it back. Of course, at the tidy sum of 23,560 gold, she didn't _really_ need to be running such errands, but there was bound to be more magical gear to acquire, like those in High Hedge. No, she needed more. And besides, she still had to buy shares in iron.

After the slimy elf, there was another young fool, one who claimed to have lost his brother. Well, she knew _exactly_ where to send him – there was an old farmer seeking a helping hand… but she'd keep her eyes open for the undoubtably dead brother though. It kept Garrick happy, and while Edwin and Shar-Teel both rolled their eyes, she pointed out that a spider's nest probably had loot, especially if the moronic young man was carrying 'spider's bane' like his brother claimed. That seemed to cheer one of them up.

Cloakwood Forest might actually be nice if it wasn't infested with ettercaps, spiders, and other nasty things, including creepers, Hecharna mused as she glanced up at the trees and felt the gentle breeze wash over her face. And then she saw it: a huge dome that made her skin crawl. A colossal spider's nest. If that's where that idiot boy's brother had gone… they should just burn it and be done with it, but that might attract every spider from here to the coast. It was definitely a mistake to go inside, but inside she went, determined to find the blade 'spider's bane'.

There was a monstrosity of a woman there. Hecharna wasn't even sure what to call her. She was bloated, gigantic, and squatting in a tattered loincloth. Quickly, she called out that they were here to seek her wisdom, whilst her shields quietly stepped into position.

"I am cursssed. The archmage, Jon Irenicus, cursed me for indignities done to him and his wife by me. I loved Jon, but now I hate him, as I hate you and everything. Spiderssss… kill them all."

What won battles was the 'horror' spell, so aptly cast by Edwin, 'command', and hacking their arachnid bodies into itty-bitty pieces. It was a tactic that worked outside in the woods, and it worked in here too; Centeol could only watch as her minions were eviscerated. It was not a battle without wounds, but it was a battle won. Once her minions were utterly and completely destroyed, there was the question of what to do with Centeol. Garrick attempted to charm her, perhaps out of pity; the bard listened wide-eyed.

"I can tell you of my curse, for that is all I remember anymore. I used to be beautiful and powerful. An exotic sorceress, with many powers at my command and suitors at my door. But I only had eyes for one man, Jon Irenicus. He was a great and powerful wizard, the only man worthy of my affections, or so I thought. Though I lusted for Jon, he cared little for me, for he had another to whom he was married, Lady Tanova. So I plotted and schemed, and finally came up with a plan to rid the world of Tanova. When the deed was done and Tanova lay dead, I was exultant, but not for long. Jon went mad with fury, and using his powerful magics, divined the identity of his wife's murderer. He arrived at my tower, and I allowed him entry, desirous to finally consummate our love. Jon disabled me with his spells, then he cursed me to this body and set spiders to feed me and keep me alive. So you see, if you were my friend, you would kill me."

Edwin licked his lips, but from behind Shar-Teel's swords lopped the monstrous woman's head off just as Kivan's arrow embedded itself in her heart.

There was little else to be done, and no one said a word, though Garrick shed a private tear for the whole sordid saga. Half eaten and decaying, Kivan pulled free the young man that matched the other young fool's description, and with it, spider's bane, or so exclaimed Garrick.

Despite the utter skin-crawlingness of it all, Hecharna couldn't help but smile when Melicamp, transformed into a wolf, raged at the spiders so much larger than his chicken self.

The young man was understandably heartbroken, but really, what did he expect? Pointing him in the direction of the farm, Hecharna had Kivan lead the group deeper into the woods.

* * *

**A/N: I did not make this section up: it is copied word for word.**

* * *

_Journal_

_When we charmed the huge bloated creature that called herself Centeol, we were told an interesting story. It seems she was cursed to her current shape by a powerful mage named Jon Irenicus. Hah! Only a fool would run afoul of a mage like that._

* * *

As they journeyed deeper into the woods, they were ambushed by two wyverns; once again, the command invocation proved invaluable and set both of the deadly creatures to sleep. They woke all too soon, but they died a gruesome and painful death, battered, pummelled, and slashed. The magic at their command inflicted horrors upon them, and their steel did the rest. Still, it was not a victory without cost, and they stumbled into the next clearing, Shar-Teel gravely injured. It was there they met a man named Eldoth Kron; much like the elf Coran, he seemed a charlatan and a trickster, introducing himself with:

"Sorry if I seem out of breath, but I had to retreat from a battle. I was ambushed by a dozen gnolls farther back on the trail. I handily dispatched them but thought better of fighting their half dozen ogre friends. I think I've evaded them for now. Would any of you care for a drink of some fine Selgauntian brandy?"

"A likely story–" Began Edwin, but Hecharna cut him off.

"Sure." Replied she, sensing an opportunity to spring a trap on the trapper. If he had slain a half dozen gnolls, there would be bodies, and those she wanted to see. Something dark lit inside her, a sort of hunger. As to half ogres? Had they not just slain wyverns, although, Shar-Teel still needed to quaff some healing potions. And besides, had they not run across and felled an ogre on the way to Cloakwood?

"I hope you are enjoying your liquor; it is some of the best you can find. All of you are probably wondering why I'm being so generous, 'obviously not from the kindness of his heart,' you think. Well, in a way, I am. You look like the type to be on the outlook for ways to improve the quality of your life. Well, I have a proposal that could help you in that endeavour."

And here it was. Outwardly, Hecharna waited with bated breath; inwardly, she rolled her eyes.

"You see, there's a girl, my lover in fact, who desires to escape her father and live on her own. Her father is Entar Silvershield, one of the dukes of Baldur's Gate."

The same Entar Silvershield who had lost his son? And now this creep was going to take the man's daughter away from him as well? Something in Hecharna's throat caught and suddenly, she stopped playing. Ice began to grip her, and her shoulders trembled slightly.

The slimeball didn't seem to notice; the others were observing him with mixed reactions: outrage from Garrick, boredom from Shar-Teel, apparent disinterest from Kivan but Hecharna knew that the elf was only seconds away from cutting the man down; intrigue and disgust from Edwin, and a kind of hunger which was… off-putting.

"This, of course, makes her desires more difficult than that of the average city girl. However, with your assistance, we could help her escape the tyrannical clutches of Entar. So here's the punchline: Since Entar's going to be hunting us anyway, we could blackmail him for hoards of cash and not worry about our captive escaping. After all, we're doing it all for the sake of Skie. Now, we need't go about this right away. In fact, I'll help you with whatever you're doing until you decide to head up to Baldur's Gate. Just think of it as one favour deserving another."

Oh, they had acquired several cursed items in their travels, Hecharna thought grimly, but never had she the opportunity or desire to use them. That had changed. Ah, but which one? Amongst the pieces was the choice ring that left one looking like a zombie, unpalatable to look at and sniff; there was that fool's ring that dulled the mind; and then… then there was that girdle from that ogre. She would play his game, feeding him whatever he wanted to hear; behind her back, she waved her shields down. Shar-Teel must have grunted or eyerolled, but she did not intervene; Kivan was probably disgusted, Garrick confused, and Edwin's hunger probably increased. There was just something about this man that she just wanted to _hurt_.

"Sure, we could use the extra help, and your scheme sounds like it could work."

"I'm glad you're all savvy enough to recognise a good opportunity when it comes." Spoke he, unaware of the e'er darkening plans Hecharna's mind churned for he: when she was through with him, he would wish he had been as fortunate as Centeol.

* * *

**A/N: the journal entry even says, and I quote:**

_"We've agreed to help Eldoth with an extortion plan. He wants us to kidnap **a young girl** named Skie who happens to be the daughter of the Grand Duke. Eldoth has told us that Skie wants to escape home and would be a willing partner in the scheme. Once we have her, Eldoth will blackmail Entar"._ Emphasis mine. As much as Hecharna likes money, she dislikes anything that reminds her of her own vulnerability, Imoen, and this checks all those boxes. But who knows, perhaps it will work out swimmingly!


	21. Chapter 5, part 10

**Chapter 5, part 10 – The Mines**

There was a cave of baby wyverns, a trainer, and all ended up dead. The pair of wyverns went straight after Melicamp, but the whole party, sans Eldoth, rallied around the chicken as he became a fearsome wolf. Shar-Teel had her own reasons, which seemed to be about shedding blood.

After that, it was a long trek east, a cave that no doubt housed the wyvern nest, a thing that Hecharna was absolutely not poking her nose into just yet*, and then there was the palisade. The trouble was, with each step, Hecharna kept turning over and over in her mind what Eldoth was doing in the woods. Why was he waiting there of all places? He must be an outlaw, smugger of some description, or was it something else? How many people tromped through the Cloakwood? Or had he just spied an opportunity? What was he doing there? Was he really running from gnolls? Was he an assassin? Had he used a charm spell on this Skie and convinced her to… she didn't want to think about it. 'Lover' could mean many things, and if Eldoth's motivation was money, this Skie was worth more if she was hanging off his every word, enrapt rather than in bed. Maybe Skie was just some naïve, spoilt, rich girl too bored and too pampered and she was as vapid as Eldoth described. But it was her choice, wasn't it? That didn't stop Eldoth from being a creep preying on a young girl though.

She needed to stop thinking about it; Skie wasn't Imoen, and even if it was Imoen… Imoen could take care of herself. She owed the Silvershields nothing… and yet… if she were to turn Eldoth into the duke himself… if Eldoth confessed… perhaps this Entar would reward them richly. Kagain was back in his store preparing things, or at least, he had better be; it might be a mistake to think the duke wouldn't find out the dwarf had travelled with them, but by then, hopefully saving his daughter would outweigh the death of his son. Had they not slain the bandits responsible?

Her musings drew to a halt as they neared the palisade. Crouching in the brush, she signalled for the rest of her mooks to draw close and discuss tactics. Eldoth and Shar-Teel were on the outskirts of the huddle, though the former held more disdain and disinterest than Edwin, who suggested firing the whole place. It wasn't a bad idea. Shar-Teel wanted to charge in with her blades screaming for blood; Garrick could only draw upon stories and life wasn't like that, but occasionally, he had a thought that was helpful. Kivan remained silent; as long as he had his bow, he would snipe their foes.

Which left her. It could be a trap, perhaps an advanced guard left behind, but it had been some time since they were last around. Perhaps Tazok had spies in Beregost; it was hard to know. Her thoughts lent themselves towards the psychological, the use of command, horror, and other disabling spells. It was better to infiltrate than to storm, and they needed to save their strength for whatever was in the mines themselves. After all, they were the only ones getting out alive. She was going to send Tazok, Davaeron, and this Sarevok a message: they could hunt her, but she was not playing their game. She had slain everyone in the bandit camp, and now she was going to kill everyone here. Letting Endar Sai, or whatever his name was, go was a mistake: she should have left him there with the rest. She had no way of knowing if he was telling the truth or if he was just a plant. This was the kind of weakness that let Imoen get herself killed. She needed to be tougher.

Something within her stirred; she told it to hush, and then, with a wry smile, murmured, "_Kozah a plet 'dar cass toglah. Kozah._" She must have said it aloud from the round of shocked – and confused – faces. "Pandemonium," she smiled without any trace of mirth or warmth. "We will unleash it."

[…]

_*When she did finally come to the wyvern's cave, she had a plan: the potions of fireball. All at once. Three of them._

* * *

**A/N: I miss the Cloakwood movie clip with the wyvern stealing the cow. Miss the gnoll fortress clip too.**

* * *

There were four of them. One threatened to make Hecharna's severed head into a puppet and have it say, 'Always kill the mouthy one' over and over while drinking mead. And yet, somehow, it didn't go quite so well for them. The silence and horror spells left their mark on the mages; Kivan's arrows, Garrick's bolts, Eldoth's arrows, and Shar-Teel's steel all engaged, but the true hero of the piece was Melicamp. With but his magic missile and his wolf form, he slew not one but both of the two mages, while Shoal distracted the cleric and Hecharna engaged Drasus, her mace cracking against his skull.

For a moment, confusion gripped both Hecharna and Shar-Teel, and Shar-Teel even mistook her for a foe, but the haze did eventually clear and when it did, their foes lay dead. This is what the note said:

* * *

_We have need of your services yet again, Drasus._

_We're expecting an incursion at our mine location in the Cloakwood._

_You are to accompany Davaeron to the site and prevent entry or assault by anyone that is foolish enough to challenge you_

_Your standard fee shall be doubled in this instance. If all goes well, you should look forward to more of the same._

_Rieltar._

* * *

Just who in the Nine Hells was Rieltar? Piss and horse excretion drown all those in the Iron Throne! Hecharna swore. "_Rrrackne dall'a osa Kozah. Q' al te-pah Kozah._" Bury them all. Into the mine they went.

One mine was similar to others, she soon learnt, and she was reminded strongly of Nashkel, but this time, she was fighting the guards and there were no kobolds. Maybe they _were_ the kobolds – to the Iron Throne.

The stairs led down to tunnels hewn out of the rock; the elevator led to a level where there were walled passageways, guard stations, a mess hall, a kitchen, and what looked like stabling but were actually cells; a forge on the level beneath that, all sorts of foul smells and stale air, blood, entrails, and brains strewn across the floor; guard dormitories, a foul ogre-mage who had tormented and slain many and walked amongst the stacked bodies; hobgoblins.

It wasn't enough to stop them. A couple of horror spells cleared the mess, and the rest found themselves cut down by arrows and steel.

"You're quite a bunch of greenheads, ain't ya? You've come down here to guzzle, or maybe one of you handsome stags wants to shag me. I am quite a fubsy, aren't I? Heh heh heh." Said the cook. Both Edwin and Eldoth both started hurrying towards her, the former hitching up his robes until Hecharna slammed her fist into the wall. Disgraceful. She was inclined to agree with Shar-Teel: disgusting, rutting behaviour.

Sneaking away, Eldoth did charm her and she purred into his ear:

"I really do like all of ya. We should have a private shag party, right here in me kitchen."

So she, and the rest of the group left them to it. Edwin started to linger, but Hecharna grabbed his arm and tugged sharply, hissing that they needed their 'mighty mage'; at first, indignation filled his dark features, affronted at being so manhandled, but the stroking of his ego proved too great and he all but preened, stroking his trimmed and oiled little beard.

"(Yes, they do need my power, don't they? Of course it is obvious that they would.)"

Edwin would be on the front lines, Hecharna vowed silently. She'd be back for Eldoth; may he get the pox.

"I think you need to learn some manners," Commented Garrick to Shar-Teel who had shoved him aside as they milled around the latest band of ill-trained, poorly equipped guards who had run afoul of them.

"How would you like my sword tickling your innards?" Retorted she.

"Try to keep quiet and speak when spoken to," Eldoth announced grandly with a self-satisfied smirk as he rejoined the mooks. It had been perhaps two, three minutes at most.

Hecharna chose not to comment but simply pushed through the mine. Most of the resistance came from hobgoblins, a few from human guards, but as before, their mail was shoddy by comparison and most wore leathers. Against the finely tempered plate taken from their betters and refitted, they had little hope. Indeed, only Davaeron's bodyguard – or gatewarden – had plated mail, but even that could not save him. Hecharna's mace crushed his hand and Shar-Teel's swords pierced his throat.

As to the master of the mines himself, well, he fell victim to a charm spell:

"As I have told you, I am the mighty magician Davaeron! I serve Rieltar of the Iron Throne. It is my duty to keep this mine running at peak efficiency. This mine used to be in the possession of a clan of dwarves. They mined into the side of the river, and most of the dwarves died in the ensuing flood. The Iron Throne has moved in and plugged the river with a magical seal. If anyone were to use the key I keep in my bedroom chest, they could open the seal and flood the mines. That would be a very bad disaster for the Iron throne. Indeed, yes it would."

The benefits of charming Davaeron also extended to having him extinguish his magical arsenal, and then casting his most powerful on himself. After that, he fell with great ease. How could he not, for what was a mage without his spells?


	22. Chapter 6, part 1

**Chapter 6**

* * *

_You have dealt a great blow to the organisation known as the Iron Throne, a defeat that you are certain will not be ignored. Now you must travel to the great city of Baldur's Gate, where you are certain to find the truth behind the strange plot that plagues the citizens of the Sword Coast._

* * *

Davaeron's Letters (chronological order)

_Davaeron,_

_I have received your request for extra slaves. They will be sent as soon as possible. Events go well in Baldur's Gate. We have purchased one of the noble western estates to use as our base of operations. It is an ancient building, most likely constructed before the erection of the second wall. Its construction makes it very defensible against those who would thieve it. Remember to ask Yeslick if he enjoys his new accommodations._

_Rieltar_

_Alturiak, 1365._

_Davaeron,_

_Our plans go smoothly. Sarevok has arrived from our headquarters in Ordulin. He brings news from our superiors; they are pleased with our progress so far. I plan to place Sarevok as the commander of our mercenary forces in the region. He has already sent his subordinate, Tazok, to the Wood of Sharp Teeth to take command of the forces located there. Things go apace here in Baldur's Gate. We have placed our first agent among the ranks of the Seven Suns trading coster._

_Rieltar_

_Flamerule 1367_

* * *

_Davaeron,_

_As you have probably heard, the iron poison has begun to take effect around the coast. With the majority of iron imports being disrupted by Tazok, almost all of it comes from the tainted source in Nashkel. The Sythillisian uprising in Amn has ensured no forces from that nation will be able to take action against our mercenary forces. However, the Flaming Fist has caught several of the Blacktalon mercenaries. All of those captured have claimed allegiance with the Zhentarim and have thus shifted any suspicion away from the Iron Throne. I have sent Tranzig to work with the mercenaries in transporting the iron to your base in Cloakwood. He has bought several bags of holding so that he, alone, will make trips into Cloakwood, thereby lessening the chance that Flaming Fist trackers might find your stronghold._

_Rieltar_

_Tarsakh, 1368 _

* * *

Bags of holding? Why hadn't she found them? Hecharna swore under her breath and rolled up the letters. What was the Seven Suns trading coster? Would Kagain know? She hadn't heard of the Sythillisian uprising, at least, not off the top of her head. Maybe someone in Nashkel would know? Xzar would certainly be interested in the Zhentish angle, which is probably why he was here… who could she send to Nashkel? So Sarevok was the one in command of the mercenaries… she would have to find out more about him. Kivan would probably take an interest in that too.

So many questions. But the biggest one was whether or not to actually use the key to flood the mine. On the one hand, it would cripple the iron mining here, but it would also mean that Nashkel would become the sole provider of iron for the region again. While the mages could drain the Cloakwood mine… how would she get in on the action if she scuttled, quite literally, the plan to choke the market? What she really needed to find were those damn bags of holding. If she left the mines as they were, they'd only send someone else, and she had vowed to destroy everything in them. Still…

On the other hand, if she was the heir to the Iron Throne, which seemed very unlikely, but how else did she fit into any of this, it seemed foolish to destroy assets she might one day inherit. If she did flood the mines and kill everyone who knew their location, which meant disposing of her mooks as well, then she could revive the mine at a later date. If she was able to purchase slaves and hire guards, and ensure their loyalty. Perhaps her mooks might help with that.

Well, she was allowed to change her mind. Davaeron and his apprentice were dead; the other mages in the place were dead, as were all the guards they found, which only left the slaves. If she flooded it, no evidence would be left it was her handiwork. If she left it as it was, perhaps that would send a message to this Rieltar.

Either way, her next step was to learn more about the Iron Throne, the Seven Suns, this Sarevok and his superior, Rieltar. But first, she had a wyvern's nest to purge.

[…]

* * *

While this was taking place, Dusty had been looting the various stores, strongboxes and chests of Davaeron. While the dimension door spell was not present (despite being present in Davaeron's spellbook, which Hecharna naturally pocketed), there were a couple of other spells that caught her eye: these were: knock, and melf's acid arrow, both of which found themselves inscribed into her spellbook.

* * *

**(A/N: And of course, with the cleric second level spell 'find traps', she was pretty much able to fill in the gap of the party thief, provided Garrick could continue to pickpockets, but we wouldn't want to put Dusty out of a job.).**

* * *

It turned out the elf on the bridge wasn't lying. Unfortunately, Kelddath Ormlyr, mayor of Beregost, priest of Lathander, was only willing to pay 2,000 gold for one of the six heads she brought back. Full adult wyvern heads. May the seas open up and consume him, Kozah, Kozah, Kozah, she muttered under her breath. Piss swilling goat-sucker; were all nobles this full of themselves? If this young girl Skie was as bad as Kelddath Ormlyr, she might heed the words of Hull and have someone tan her hide. Maybe Kagain. Reevor, Candlekeep's resident dwarf, was all about that kind of thing, and given Kagain's surliness, perhaps he was too. It was hard to tell exactly where stereotypes ended and individuality began, when Reevor was there for more than just grouchiness or if it extended across most of his kind.

Either way, it was time to pay a little visit to her mercenary consortium and see how her bathhouse was faring.

[…]

How many days had she been gone? A tenday? And nothing. No progress. Useless people. So she set her trusted lieutenant, Kivan, now officially her second in command, to oversee the progress. She would keep him informed in the hunt for Tazok, she promised, but he would have to make ready the 'companions', as she dubbed them. When the time came, she would marshal all the sword arms she could and together, they would march to rid Faerûn of all who willingly partook alongside Tazok.

Kivan, surprisingly, agreed, and then it was off to Baldur's Gate, Xzar in tow. Whether or not she wanted to check in with Vai first was something she pondered all the way down from Cloakwood. Whilst fame was more likely to lend her credentials for work, did the Iron Throne really need to know that it was her and her little band that wiped out both their mercenary encampment and the Cloakwood mine? They'd probably torture the slaves and find out. Hopefully by then, she have infiltrated and struck their stronghold, or something. Or plied her newfound assets: knowledge – and allowed the iron stranglehold to simply run its course. She just had to find out where she could invest in shares, doing so through 'Kagain's' company, of course; she highly doubted an individual could simply purchase shares.

The journey to Baldur's Gate was more or less without incident. Eldoth was more smug than usual, perhaps at the prospect of seeing his 'lover' again after so long. Either way, Hecharna felt the sharp urge to push him off the bridge and drown him in the river. The bridge fording the river was rather long, with a drawbridge gatehouse, and guarded.

From across the river she could spy the city itself; a huge walled affair, imposing, and dwarfed Beregost many times over. She felt her throat clench. Was it really wise to be wandering into the lair of their foe? Surely the Iron Throne had agents everywhere? Elsewise, how did they capture that moronic elf – Endar Sai or whatever his name was. Well, nothing to be done now… unless she wanted to hide away for the rest of her days, which might end within the next hour. Drawing a deep breath, she steadied herself, braced herself for the stink that was sure to follow, and took the first step onto the great bridge.

[…]


	23. Chapter 6, part 2

**Chapter 6, part 2**

Three days and four hours to reach Beregost from the Cloakwood mine; sixteen hours to her farmstead, a brief rest, an ambush by two ankhegs (who didn't survive very long), and then four hours to the bridge, 'wyrm's crossing'.

A sole guard on the bridge demanded to know their origin, and as tempting as it was to reply with something along the lines of, oh, 'the mystical land of frolicking naked nymphs, where your every desire is granted by bald blubbering bugbears', she wasn't Xzar. Also: six gold as an entry fee?!

And then there was 'Scar' –

"First off, let me introduce myself. I'm Scar, second-in-command of the Flaming Fist. Though it is not necessary for you to reveal your names, please answer me this: Are you the group that was involved in the trouble at the Nashkel mines?"

Who knew who was watching? Catching his eye, Hecharna nodded slightly but aloud returned, "Ah… nope."

"I hope you're telling the truth, though it doesn't really matter. You're free to go. If you ever have any trouble or change your minds about your identity, you can find me outside the Flaming Fist compound."

Well, she didn't think much of that. Did the man not understand non-vocalised language? Then there was that… gnome. Why did people accost her?!

"I wile away the hours, conferring with the flowers, consulting with the rain." Hummed he, then greeted her, "Hey ho there, fellow travellers! You look to be wanderers of the adventuring sort. Tell me, what direction calls you?"

The only 'venture' she had a call for was profit. And this gnome did not strike her as the type, despite the tophat and spectacles. And why for Kozah's storms would she reveal her direction?

Xzar should have known better to chime in, "Westwards til dawn!" but chime in he did. Hecharna could have smacked him.

"Oh no, not my way at all. Nevertheless, since you are so obviously in need of guidance from someone with not quite so much orcish heritage, I shall alter my course and come with you. Don't bother to thank me; just grunt approval."

"Thou art a dink!" Exclaimed Xzar, uttering a 'begone'.

"I should have guessed by your knuckle-dragging gait and minuscule nose, you're a complete and utter moron, aren't ya?"

She had to catch Xzar's arm – who writhed and shrieked, 'Stop touching me!' – in order to prevent it becoming a fight. She also had to refrain from planting a kick in the gnome's face. Had everyone in her little band forgotten the cardinal rule? No one spoke but she. It was time for another morning meeting.

As they passed through the great towered gates, that strange, red pointy hatted old man reappeared – and just as before, lightning inexplicably struck on a sunny day!

_Kozah, was that you?_ Hecharna silently wondered, shaking her head, and leaving the strange staff where it lay on the ground. Then to their right, the first shop they saw, 'Lucky Aelo', looked remarkably like Kagain's store.

Offloading some trinkets she'd acquired, gems, and the like, her total treasury came to 38,362 gold, despite 'Lucky Aelo' daring to only offer them 300 per plate mail and per mage's robe. Well, she would show him. Garrick…!

Well, well, well… A sword that consumed gold with each hit. Utterly useless. Perhaps there was someone she could fob it off to: perhaps that idiot gnome outside the city gates desperate for a group to take him in…

Then there was the elfsong tavern, and a bit across from that, Sorcerous Sundries. Where else was she going to go? Shopping! And shopping for magic no less!

…Potions of regeneration? Very handy! Perfect for if one lost a limb, whether claw, hand, talon, or wing! She was still amazed no one had struck her eye yet, but if she ever did lose a part of her, this would be perfect. All three of them. 750 gold a piece? A steal. Then there were the spells scrolls. Melf's Minute Meteors? Absolutely. 450 gold? Not an issue. Clairvoyance? Certainly. Sunfire, Chaos, Polymorph Self? Yes, yes, and yes. Did it matter that she couldn't cast these from her spellbook yet? Of course not: knowledge was power, and she would learn in time. Greater Malison? Remove Curse. Yes. Although, she should be able to break curses once she was strong enough in the faith… but it never hurt to have a backup. She should probably let the others outfit themselves too, but one thing at a time.

* * *

Former Treasury: 38,362 gold.

Current Treasury: 31,912 gold.

* * *

…Maybe her shield mooks could wait to replenish their own arsenal. Those little spells had cost more than her ankheg plate! Still, maybe a couple to tide them over. Maybe she could let Xzar decipher Davaeron's spellbook: that would keep him happy. Edwin… er… hmm, Burning Hands, Flaming Arrow, Fireball, Ice Storm, Cone of Cold – there, that ought to keep him happy. Garrick… well, Garrick and Eldoth could both have 'Friends'. Maybe by the time they were done bickering, they'd not notice that Edwin was now a walking ballista of the arcane.

* * *

Former Treasury: 31,912 gold.

Current Treasury: 28,462 gold.

* * *

Okay, they were not spending that kind of coin again any time soon. Now they really needed work. What did that Scar fellow want anyway? Also, it was about time to send Xzar back with the Ankheg shells, but first, upstairs! Perhaps there were more magical wares –

Oh Nine Hells –

"Mmm… Xzar has spoken highly of you in his reports."

That did it.

"Of course he has. Am I not among the finest beings to ever have trod the surface of the realms?" Perhaps this robed individual would sense her sarcasm.

"Yes, he did mention your arrogance… the Iron Throne is based in a tower in the city's west end. I have recommended to Xzar that you focus your investigations there. Now, please, leave us be. It is not wise to speak of these things as openly as we are now."

So now the Zhentarium were consorting openly with her? Xzar was one thing, but this… reports? It was time for Xzar to go downstairs. She had Garrick distract the wild-eyed necromancer-cum-acolyte-of-Oghma, her 'protégé', and turned back to the robed man…

[…]

Outrageous. No one would sell her shares in iron. Time to steal the ledgers. It was certain they would be heavily guarded, and with the Flaming Fist patrolling the city, it might not be wise to simply launch a frontal assault, but perhaps during the night? What was that Rieltar wrote to Davaeron? How the estate would resist thieving? They would have to see. But first… there was that little matter about Skie.

[…]


	24. Chapter 6, part 3

**Chapter 6, part 3**

Shoal certainly gained them some odd looks, as did Melicamp, but that was par for the course now. Shoal, disliking the texture and feel of clothing, nevertheless was 'obliged' to attire herself more appropriately for city life: a hooded robe, but under the cowl, her face was still blue. Melicamp, as usual, rode proudly on Garrick's forearm, shoulder, and occasionally head.

Eldoth guided them through the city to the Silvershield Estate. There was a great many buildings, more than Hecharna had ever seen in her life and she knew she would be hopelessly lost without a guide – part of her wished Kivan was there, but he was not one for cities. Garrick gaped at all the sights, be they stone buildings, brick, colourful tents, or colourful clothes. She almost clouted him a few times; Edwin sneered, muttering to himself that this was nothing unto the grandeur of Thay, or something along those lines. Xzar was back at the shop, assuming he survived the trip; maybe it was a mistake to send him alone. The Iron Throne might capture and torture him, but what of her plans? Even she didn't know. At least, not yet.

The Ducal Palace was a fortified keep within the city, smaller than Candlekeep, and honestly, Hecharna was really not that impressed by it. She had been expecting something grander, something larger… something bigger than her library home. Eldoth barely noticed it and continued without a care in the world, offering suggestive, overly long glances at any woman with a bust that was either partially visible or larger than his face. Maybe they'd get lucky and he'd drown in a duckpond.

Then, before she knew it, they were there and Eldoth was speaking down to them again. Somehow, even Edwin's attempts at talking down to them were more palatable.

"We should sneak in and find her room. Once there, we'll sneak her out. We shouldn't kill any guards, as that will bring the wrath of the Flaming Fist down on our heads."

_Her room, huh? _Hecharna pondered. They weren't letting Eldoth stay in Skie's chambers for a second longer than necessary – and she wasn't going to give those two a moment alone. Skie should see exactly what kind of 'man' she was courting. After all, how could anyone forget the cook in the unflooded Nashkel mines?

In through the front door. Bold. And there it was…

"Excuse me," spoke a servant in livery, "but I don't think I recognise you. Entar Silvershield didn't say anyone was going to be in today. Would it be rude of me to inquire what you're doing here?"

"I am an art collector," Hecharna resorted to her most nasally Xzar impression, "I am here to collect some marble statuettes that I purchased a week past. My companions are here to help me carry them out."

"If that's the case, then tell me what one of the statues looks like!"

"There's one that looks like a warrior," Hecharna sniffed.

"Okay, I believe you. I'm sorry for being so much trouble."

As you should, peasant, Hecharna uncharitably imitated any one of a number of nobles she'd overheard while wandering through the streets. Of course she had had Eldoth describe the Silvershield estate! This was a heist, after all!

Garrick charmed the first guard… and up the stairs they went. And then there was Entar Silvershield, the grand duke himself… who also fell to a charm spell:

"I am Entar Silvershield, one of the Grand Dukes of Baldur's Gate! I can tell you many things, friend. Perhaps you'd care to hear about the Iron Throne. They're a new mercantile organisation that have been set up in Baldur's Gate. Most of us are rather concerned over some of the Iron Throne's actions, but they have promised to supply us with iron, a resource that has been very rare of late. We are suspicious of Amn, our neighbour to the south. We think Amn has allied with the Zhentarim in an attempt to annex our glorious city. However, Scar feels that the evidence against Amn was too easy to come by, almost as if someone were trying to frame Amn to cause friction between our two nations. Since you are my best friend, I should tell you I have a very beautiful daughter. Her name is Skie, and she is now of marriageable age."

Well, that changed things. A little.

And then Brilla.

"Why, I'm so happy to have such wondrously interesting people visit me. I would be so happy if all of you would join me for tea."

Finally, there was Skie herself.

"Eldoth!" Exclaimed the young girl of marriageable age, "I thought I'd never see you again!"

"Skie! It's good to see you again. We're here to get you away from this place. These people with me are friends of mine; we're what you might call adventurers."

Again with the adventurer… when would people learn that Hecharna was _not_ an adventurer?

"Thank you for your help!" Cried the girl, "I am so happy to be away from this horrid place. Eldoth told me that you were adventurers. Perhaps you would let me join your party?"

So that's how it was. Only with Eldoth's permission. Had they not been standing _right there_? "Of course you may," Hecharna smiled, "And now we must away."

Skie happened to have a number of gems, all of which she took with her, as well as an enchanted cloak. Entar was right about his daughter's beauty: there was a comeliness about her, Hecharna thought with no amount of small bitterness. She held herself with unconscious poise and grace, as if unaware of the refinery that was no doubt bred into her since the cradle. Her hair was done neatly, her eyes shadowed by kohl, and her clothes were of finery. She would not be pleased to have to wash all of it off, but if she was to travel with them, she would scrub her face and adorn lesser garments: Hecharna would tell her it was an 'adventure'.

And so, they quit the estate… and to the nearest inn they went, holing up. Naturally, Hecharna insisted that as they shared a room, and it would be not wise to hire more than one, the standard sleeping arrangement stand, meaning, Skie took the other side of her bed, while Eldoth had Kagain's old spot in the corner, Shar-Teel having Kivan's old place between the window and door, and Garrick on the floor and Edwin on the couch, a thing he found most insufferable, and yet, it was such a fine couch, as their coin – her coin – paid for the finest of rooms.

She had best be rid of Eldoth soon, lest Skie wind up with child, and then it would be her neck stretched as the noose dangled her still-kicking boots. Given how much he spoke down to Shar-Teel, she had expected that the warrioress would have long since run him through but alas, not yet. And perhaps it was time for Skie to see the true nature of the 'debonair' bard she had fallen for. Somehow, Hecharna couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible and wonder about Entar and Brilla… everyone made their own choices, but still. There was a naivety about Skie that was at once childlike and also the rebelliousness of youth. In her comments, it appeared she enjoyed visiting the seedier areas of 'the Gate' but was clueless as to their dangers.

Perhaps the girl would be heartbroken at the loss of her wonderful Eldoth, run off crying and wind up dead, or worse. Maybe after a few days, they would simply return her home – as soon as the girl became footsore and understood the uncomfortable realities of travel. Or perhaps she would surprise them all and rise to the challenge.

Either way, it was time to seek out Scar – Skie might be better off waiting in the tavern though, but that meant leaving her alone. Perhaps Shoal could remain with her, not that Shoal would interfere if anything were to occur… Nine Hells, what had she gotten herself into this time?

[…]


	25. Chapter 6, part 4

**Chapter 6, part 4**

"Hello, there. Dun, ex-merchant at your service. How may I be of assistance?"

_You spoke to us,_ Hecharna grated to herself. More and more she was beginning to come around to seeing things from a certain Thayvian's point of view: 'Again you disturb me! What is it _now_?' One of these days…

"Could you tell me where the good stores are in this city?" Smiled Garrick, blithely unaware to both Eldoth and Skie's presence.

"There are no good shops in this city. Nope. None. Don't even think about it. Especially the ones run by the Seven Suns or the Merchants' League. I used to gamble with those fellows but something's not right. I'm in debt to them up to my ears but nothin's happening. No big guys with clubs knocking on my door in the middle of the night, no poison in my ale, nothing."

_Kozah, rrrackne dall'a osa Kozah… _Hecharna breathed long and inhaled sharply. Did she ask? Did she? No. Did she care? Did she have some giant sign saying 'therapy-for-free'? On the other hand… maybe she could turn this fool in to the nearest bounty office, or was that just an Amn thing? Probably.

"It's like they've forgotten the whole thing." Dun rambled. "I saw my old buddy Al in the street the other day, looked him right in the eye, and he didn't even cuff me about the ears. Just started looking real nervous like he had forgotten his best friend's name at a party or something. Strange, I tell you."

Yes, yes, yes, goodbye, leave. She gave Garrick a look to hurry this along. Clearly this twit had no useful information. What did it matter to her if merchants were behaving strangely? Those money-grubbin' parasites might well as be illithid tadpoles for all she cared.

Maybe, just maybe, they could get to 'Scar' – idiotic name – without being waylaid. Maybe they needed new clothes or something. Disguise themselves as Flaming Fist?

It was not to be. Not two steps along the way, they were accosted by one Varci Roaringhorn, a boychild, who begged them to speak with his guardian, a 'Lord Priest of Tymora'. Noting both Garrick and Skie's eyes, she agreed, as the brat had promised a handsome reward.

Blah, blah, blah, blah blah… did they never shut up? While Garrick and Skie listened with tearful eyes, Hecharna had to refrain from rolling hers. 'Lord Priest Tremain Belde'ar' apparently was a fool of a father, as he allowed his own brat and Varci to break into Umberlee's temple and only Varci returned alive, Casson struck down as they fled.

So why wouldn't his own temple aid him? Some feeble excuse. What about a reward? A 'meagre' sum? Why should she – she caught her breath. This wasn't who she was. Very well. Deep breath, deep breath, smile, ignore Edwin, shoot him a dark look, ignore Eldoth, ignore Shar-Teel, just keep walking. Her mooks, her band. They needed to learn obedience.

She drew Edwin aside as soon as they were out of earshot in the shadow of the nearest building, gesturing for Shar-Teel and Eldoth to stand watch.

There, she confided that having a high priest in their debt could prove useful: did he, 'great wizard of Thay', have anything in his vast arsenal of magical knowledge that could tempt a devotee of the Water Queen to handing off the body without them having to either pay upfront or farm themselves out as labourers?

At this, Edwin sneered, for what use had he for the gods? But then he began to stroke his sharp little beard, thinking and musing, mulling, and secretly flattered she had gone to him for counsel (why wouldn't she? Was he not the wisest and most powerful member of the band?)

While Edwin was distracted, she turned to Skie and Garrick and beckoned them near: no trouble, she warned: one corpse was enough. It was better not to use Skie's name, not unless they had to, but she would need them to keep an eye out for any advantage they could find while they trod the streets of this city. After all, what little shops might there be, what opportunities? Were they not 'adventurers'? She barely kept from rolling her eyes or kept the sarcasm dripping from her voice. But both Skie and Garrick nodded enthusiastically, proud to be entrusted with such an important task!

To Eldoth and Shar-Teel, she growled 'Let's go'.

[…]

The journey was calm, with everyone absorbed in their own thoughts and tasks, which was a thankful respite, Hecharna inwardly sighed. Shoal was fascinated by and disdained the city in equal measure, wrinkling her nose; Melicamp could not believe all the brightly coloured stalls, and Garrick hid him away, lest anyone try to make off with him, and Dusty watched from his secreted eyeholes in Hecharna's pack, his little quill scribbling as she walked. That was his new job now: party scribe. It might just keep him out of trouble.

Yet en route, right before the threshold to the temple of Umberlee…

"Sometimes the smell of a man makes me sick to my stomach." Brayed Shar-Teel, laconic as she stretched.

"The first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible." Sneered Eldoth who was standing beside her.

"Your impudence will one day get you killed, Eldoth." Spat Shar-Teel, fire in her eyes.

"Shar-Teel, your lot in life is to bake cookies and bear children. Now shut up." Retorted the bard.

"Say another word, Eldoth, and I'll cut out your tongue."

"Stop your whining, wench."

"You were warned, Eldoth! Now reap the consequences."

And that, as they say, was that. So much for her shields, Hecharna sighed. She was too busy keeping an eye on Garrick, on Skie, checking to ensure that the girl had her cowl drawn up, and had actually stooped – literally – to tighten the girl's boot cords, Skie obligingly lifting her knee up onto a nearby crate, and Hecharna hoping no one saw the fine cut of the girl's leggings – and then…

Skie clamped her hands to her mouth as Eldoth was cut down; Hecharna had to grab the duke's daughter in a kind of bear hug, pinning her arms from her dagger. "That's enough," Hecharna barked, her voice splitting the air, as furious and as steely as she could make it. "Step back both of you."

As Eldoth lay groaning in the mud, his side sporting a gaping wound, a wound that would see him bleed out in a few more seconds, Hecharna snarled, "Edwin – watch her. Garrick – potion, now. _Do as I say._" She didn't need to scream, only lower her voice. "And the next time," As the liquid slid down Eldoth's throat, her arms still tightly around Skie, "You two feel the need to disagree – you use your fists, and you wait until we're _not in the middle of the city_. And gods help both of you if you strike each other down. Are you so blind, so foolish, so utterly moronic that you would prove Edwin right? Are you nothing more than the witless simians he claims you are? Are you? Is it not apparent yet that we are beset by foes–" Her hold on Skie tightened, "That you must try to kill each other? No, I don't care – shut up, both of you. Say one more word Eldoth, – go ahead, talk about 'kitchens'; yes, that's right. Now shut your mouth – or you, and I will be very, very put out. Now fall back in line. Shar-Teel, guard our flank; Eldoth – just keep your yap shut and step inside."*

Hecharna knew she probably should have let Skie rush over to him, cry 'are you all right?', allow him to shake her off coldly or make some witticism, but her patience had run out. Instead, she seized the girl's hand and hissed in her ear, "Don't you dare encourage him. He's fine. And before you think I'm being hateful or mean, remember that he just picked a fight over nothing. They're both responsible. Now let's go save that child, shall we?"

Skie forced a shaky smile, and Hecharna's hold tightened then loosened. Garrick, pale-faced and not quite shaken, took a step to try to console Skie but a single look froze him in his tracks. Was she going to have to invest in a wooden ruler and start rapping knuckles? She was about ready to scream.

* * *

***A/N so my game crashed before I could save this little interaction and I could get it to re-trigger, so Eldoth is still here.**

* * *

"I am Jalantha Mistmyr. What reason do you have to see me?"

Blah, blah, blah.

"The bodies of infidels are priced highly in these troubled times. Give me 2,000 gold and the body is yours."

Oh for the love of – she issued a curt nod, and Garrick handed over two purses. Nearby, Edwin's smirk remained in place, as it had since Shar-Teel had put Eldoth in his. At this point, two thousand gold was a small price to pay.

"By all the gods, the Lady Who Smiles must be positively beaming this day!" Exclaimed Belde'ar.

Why? Because she forked over two thousand gold? Hecharna set her teeth in a smile, her jaws instantly beginning to ache from the pressure.

"Quickly! Get the body inside where I prithee Tymora will grant it life anew! I'll not waste another moment until my son's soul is on solid ground once more. Come with, and see the wonder." The priest almost stumbled over his words. "Now the moemnt I have yearned for. Please all, no noise. I must concentrate."

The still, cold body of the boy twitched, and then, he sat bolt upright, gasping.

Where were you when I needed Imoen revived? Hecharna thought with no small amount of vitriol. Her grip was so strong that her belt creaked, her jaws also creaking. Of course, Garrick and Skie were both teary eyed, her hands clasped together, his over his mouth. Eldoth just sulked in the corner, and Edwin rolled his eyes. Shar-Teel looked like thunder. Hecharna didn't care.

"Blessed be Our Smiling Lady!" Belde'ar rejoiced. "He lives! Son, can you hear me?"

"Father, I… what' going on?"

"Oh, my dear, dear boy. You are IN SUCH TROUBLE! What in all the planes were you thinking, child?! Gallivanting through an Umberlant temple like that?! So help me, if turning you over my knee wouldn't kill you outright, you'd just black to go right to blue!"

"What… but… but it wasn't my faul…"

"Oh no, you don't! If you want to play the odds, you had best be sure you take responsibility for yourself! The goddess of luck and adventure does not endorse DUMB luck or foolish risks! I swear, if your mother were alive to hear about this she'd drop dead where she stood, and THEN I'd have to raise her TOO! Do you have any idea what this spell takes out of a person?"

Hecharna chose that moment to casting her healing magics on the boy, the least she could do. Casson's gulp was audible.

Wordlessly, she watched, stone-faced, as Belde'ar dragged his boy upstairs, uttering, "Not another word past your lips young man! You're off to your room and see if I let you out before you're four score and twenty! March!"

Varci watched with no small amount of ruefulness. "Tsk, it will be some time before Casson and I get a night out again. It is good to have him back among the living, though I take some small pleasure in the trouble he's in for what we did. You'll notice I've not sat down since you've known me. Sometimes 'Our Lady Who Smiles' downright laughs out loud. Look to us if you need aid in the future. Many a Tymoran will look favourably on you now. Good day."

The boy handed her a pouch of gold: 2,000, as well as directing her to an enchanted shield. So be it. A magic shield for recovering a body.

Also: why should she care about Varci's plight? Then smirking, she leaned down to the boy's ear, and for once, she had the last word. Without a trace of warmth in her frosty gaze, she informed him that were he hers, standing would be the very least of his worries, and without allowing her gaze to flicker towards Skie, Garrick, or any of the others, she added that the price he paid was low indeed. Then she patted his cheek and told him if either of them got themselves into trouble, they could call on her again. Rising to her full height, she turned, fire and thunder in her blackened gaze, and strode from the priest's dwelling, a far nicer house than any she'd seen, save for Skie's mansion.

[…]

Stupid iron crisis, she thought grimly as she tromped with no attempt to quiet her steps towards the southwest quarter. It made no sense that Baldur's Gate was a port city with colonies on that far off continent, M-something or other, and yet, they were crippled by this one mine. How did they even survive? Not that Entar Silvershield could control his own daughter or protect his own son, and he was a grand duke. But without the Iron Crisis, were she would she be? Chasing bandits, trudging through mines and forests, up to her ankles in muck and mire, blood and innards?

Were there not better ways to make money? Like that idiot in the Cloakwood forest raising those wyverns. How much would a wyvern egg sell for? …What about for breakfast? Open up a restaurant: an exclusive one. Wyvern egg omelette. Why didn't she think of that before she slaughtered the stupid scorpion dragon-wannabes? Shoal could be the waitress. People would surely pay massive amounts for that. Probably more trouble than it was worth though. Still, she did own a farm now…

Still consumed by her thoughts, she barely noticed Skie entering a potion shop along with Garrick and Edwin, while Shar-Teel waited outside. Catching the warrioress' grim stare, Hecharna matched it in turn, left Shoal with her, and scanned for Eldoth. He was lounging against a streetlamp beneath a tree. So be it. Hecharna chose to enter a step behind 'the kids' – after all, they could not be left alone unsupervised. Skie proved herself surprisingly adept at pocketing several potions, including potions of regeneration. Perhaps her greatest quality was replacing one liquid with another, while the storekeep was none the wiser, as Garrick regaled him with this or that tale.

A short while later, there was Scar. Like nearly everyone else, Scar used many, many words instead of getting straight to the point. 2,000 gold to sneak inside the Seven Suns coster, unearth what was wrong, and observe the leader of Seven Suns, 'Jhasso', a friend of Scar's who was behaving oddly. Blah, blah, blah, warnings, Grand Dukes noticeably upset, importance the trading coster holds over the city's economy, selling off valuable assets, neglecting profitable trading ventures, blah.

Enter the front door, ask to speak to the owner – declined; the rude merchant (was there any other kind?) claiming that Jhasso was missing, and the other merchants' faces changed. Then the fat fool lumbered off. Next merchant… also rude. Charm spell, and…

"Yes, I've got your face now but not your name…"

"My name is my business." Declared Edwin with all the grandeur of his esteemed personage. Grandiose indeed. "I'm not here to exchange pleasantries."

"Do you have no shame?! Explain yourself!" Grated the other lumbering merchant; his frame reminded her of Winthrop, no doubt a descendant of a half ogre.

"To be called shameless by a merchant! Tell me, how does that differ from the sarcasm of a bard," (Eldoth, obviously), "who compliments her drunken patron on the quality of his voice?" Sneered Edwin.

"Your wit shall be your coffin and every jest a nail. Come, my brothers. F they have not found us out by now, it will not take them long. We should not suffer fools so gladly when this much is at stake."

…Doppelgängers. Grey-skinned, bald, unclad (ew?), clawed, gaunt, mostly hairless doppelgängers. Candlekeep had many books, including almanacs of monsters, and besides which, Gorion had already told her tales of such beasts. _Kozah. ithnal cor dan osa Kozah._

Hecharna hefted her mace. With her hand, she signalled what was becoming the second most common command, the first being 'Quiet!': 'Leave no one standing'.

[…]


	26. Chapter 6, part 5

**A/N: this fic is now NaNoWriMo length – 50,000 words – in 11 days. :).  
**

* * *

**Chapter 6, part 5**

As Jhasso jabbered on about shapeshifters infiltrating the Seven Suns and being tortured, his business run into the ground, friend of Scar, Hecharna's mind began to wander.

Perhaps she should set up a wyvern ferry: from Baldur's Gate to Beregost, or Nashkel. Transport shipments of iron from the mines to the city. But how to keep the wyverns' compliant? She herself had no knack for taming and coaxing beasts, but perhaps someone else… then again, they might decide they didn't need her. Still, surely it were possible. She would, of course, need to feed the blasted things.

Maybe that priestess they saved might be useful in that area: taming the wyverns.

"I'll get the rest of the Flaming Fist to clear out the rest. It'll probably be weeks before we clean out their stench," concluded Jhasso.

Hecharna wrinkled her nose. She was never quite sure how to venture to Branwen just how dire the priestess' need for a bath truly was. Maybe a heightened sense of scent was part of being elven? But Branwen's odours were foul, worse than a dead wyvern, worse even, than Kagain, worse than _Xzar_. Maybe bathing just wasn't a thing in the Norheim Isles?

Yet outside, another member of the Flaming Fist demanded that they sought an audience with Scar; was that all she was, a janitor for others' problems? "You there! Before you go causing any more trouble I must insist you seek an audience with Scar if you haven't already!"

"What would he have say to me? Why do I need him?" Hecharna inquired politely.

"I do not presume to say you need assistance. I merely meant to point you in a helpful direction. Making waves within Baldur's Gate without the sanction of the Flaming Fist can only lead to trouble for all concerned. Scar awaits you at the Flaming Fist headquarters in the southwest quadrant of the city."

…Unbelievable, Hecharna sighed inwardly. Did anyone along the Sword Coast actually communicate, aside from the Iron Throne? Was this woman not informed that Scar was the one who hired them? Also, how did she even know what they were doing? And more to the point, were they not already a stone's throw away from the Flaming Fist headquarters, already in the southwest quadrant?

This was getting ridiculous. Her eyes flickered towards her motley band of miscreants, and as irritation replaced good sense and reason, the impulse she had been suppressing since all this began overpowered her and she seized Skie by the hand. Without speaking, she marched with the girl to the nearest tavern, the rest of her 'loyal' shields trailing behind her. Gesturing in Shar-Teel first with an impatient glare, she made sure there were no more dwarves with axes hiding in ambush, or ugly women in chainmail, or idiots who thought they were poets and spoke in the third person.

Before Skie could complain or so much as squeak, Hecharna sat the girl down heavily on the nearest barstool, dropped onto the one beside her, and ordered the first thing she saw, all while expecting her shields to guard them. Breaking out two potions of antidotes, she quaffed one and shoved the other into the duke's daughter's hand, thrusting her face forwards until the vial was drained.

Then the two tankards arrived. Skie took a hesitant sip of the black ale and made a face; with a sharp headshake, Hecharna drained hers, then signalled the next round – something sweeter. The girl took a cautionary taste, a faltering smile as Hecharna downed hers in one, and swallowed as two of Hecharna's fingers demanded a second round.

A dark look across the half elf's shoulder put Garrick to song, the first syllables more of a squawk; a second blacker look bade Eldoth join for a duet: she wasn't paying for these drinks unless she absolutely had to, and a swipe knocked the black ale in Shar-Teel's direction; with a sneer, the warrioress regarded it, then nursed it.

Four drinks was the limit, Hecharna decided, but somewhere into drink seven, she felt the abrupt urge to relieve herself and in her now pleasantly warmed state, decided that perhaps it was best not to empty her bladder over the floor, as her leggings were in the way. Skie was looking shakier than when they began, but also beaming stupidly, and somehow, both she and Hecharna had joined in the bards' song. Grabbing Skie's wrist, and pulling herself up along the girl's arm, Hecharna stood, glared at Shar-Teel, and pulled Skie as they stumbled towards the room she had forgot to request. Realising this as her foot touched the first step, she thrust out her hand towards the barkeep, and glared until he handed her a large iron key. "No." She grated, "The nicest one."

Then it was up the stairs, a horrific ordeal, with Skie as much a hindrance as a help, both tripping and grabbing the stair rail, each other, the walls, and finally, they arrived. Skie managed to splay herself flat on the floor, and somehow remembering to bolt the door, Hecharna searched around for what she needed. Skie could use the pan.

As the warmth began to be replaced by unhelpful dizziness and a sense of nausea, bloating, and other unpleasantness, Hecharna downed first one, then two antidotes. Perhaps Hull back home hadn't been entirely useless. Then she cast a glance at Skie and a wave of pity overcame her; facedown in the bedpan, some dreadful noises were emanating from the grand duke's daughter. Pulling herself up, and fumbling with her drawstrings, Hecharna messily laced herself, then swaggered over to Skie, hefted her up by the hair, arm, shoulder, whatever she could hold, and emptied first one, then two, then three antidotes down the girl's throat. Then she had slap away Skie's hands and to fumble with the aristocrat's fancier pantaloons as the girl started to hop from foot to foot.

By the end of it, both were flat on their backs on the bed, cradled in silks as they were swallowed and floated upon the finest sheets the inn had to offer, bedding fit for royalty, the barkeep had bragged. Well, Hecharna wasn't sure about that, but it was certainly nice. She should have had someone guard their door, she noted to herself as her leaden eyelids creaked shut. She was sure Shar-Teel would guard the stairs. Below them, she could still hear the duo's song as each sought to outdo the other; beside her, Skie was already snoring softly, curled up against her. Hecharna released a long, slow breath. Not as much fun as with Imoen, but not really so bad. Skie certainly liked her firewine. She'd have to remember that, she thought as sleep claimed her.

* * *

**A/N: this chapter got slightly derailed by Hecharna's current temperament...**

**Amusing, Hecharna received 'Slow Poison' from this dream. Guess that manual of constitution and those few last Westgate Rubies really helped.**


	27. Chapter 6, part 6

**Chapter 6, part 6**

It was evening by the time the pair came to. Hecharna awoke with a start, cursing under her breath about shipwrecks and blinked as she found Skie nestled up against her. Prodding the girl lightly, she was rewarded with a short snort and the girl resumed snoring. Hecharna shrugged to herself, forced herself to sit up and decided to freshen up. Once that was done, she woke Skie by grabbing her ankles and shaking the girl. When that failed, she started pulling; Skie came to with a whimper before she was half-way off the bed.

"Let's go." Hecharna declared.

"Where?" The duke's daughter yawned. "I'm tired…"

"Exploring."

At this, the girl's eyes lit up. A few moments later saw Skie freshened up, and hand in hand, they quit the room.

On the floor above the bar, Hecharna found a gamesman, a second bar, and a game of chance. She bet two, won four. That was enough. Slowly it dawned on her that Eldoth and Garrick must have been singing very loudly if she could hear them two floors below. The thought occurred to her that she had no idea where anyone else was, but at that moment, she did not care one whit. Skie tried her hand at the spinning wheel and promptly lost two gold. Hecharna fixed her a long look. Trying her luck again, Skie won back what she'd lost.

"Where do you go to have fun in this place?" The fateful question was asked.

Skie scrunched up her brow, then a slow, large grin spread across her face.

Hecharna laughed long, head-back, and without warmth. Yes, that did sound fun. Spying on idiot nobles in a brothel or heisting the Iron Throne? Heh. (Those fools would never see her coming).

[…]

But what would be even better than that? Being paid. Something clicked in Hecharna's mind and she and Skie headed towards the Flaming Fist compound. Maybe they could trick Scar into paying them for breaking into the Iron Throne. That would just be the cherry atop the very iced cake. There were probably enemies there, but that's what potions of invisibility were for, and had not Skie swindled a bunch from that twit in the store?

The Flaming Fist compound was more of a dungeon than anything, rows of cells, an awful smell, and that reminded her, she needed a bath–

"You've slain some doppelgängers?" Spoke Scar, "Fantastic! I suppose Laola has already lectured you on the difference between sanctioned and rogue actions, eh? Well, you and I know these things can't always go by the book."

So, Scar had neglected to inform his underlings… she should double her fee.

Jhasso, blah, blah, Scar was impressed, blah. Oho – triple the original agreement? Well, wasn't _that_ something?

And another job? …Sure, why not hear the details? Hecharna sighed to herself. People disappearing, three hundred gold upfront, a thousand on completion… patrol the east end of the city near the sewers? Tracks left by a centipede-like monster?

Both her and Skie's noses started wrinkling. That was not her idea of 'fun'. Where was Eldoth and Edwin? Surely that was something they could do…? Then again, 1,300 gold could buy a lot of mead…

Well, maybe she could be a monster-slayer. How hard could it be?

[…]

"Halllt, my children – We have guests among uss… Ahh, yesss, I can ssense you now – a chillld of books, you were… Aye, bookss are good… And a chillld of fffate… Heee, I havve heard of you, Hecharna, I havve heard yourrr name whisspered downn these stony halls, wherrre the drip of waterrr mingles with the gurgllling of the dead… They have wanted you dead, you know!"

Accosted by another ugly cretin, but this time, her ears pricked. "Who has wanted me dead? Have you?"

"Who, Schlumpsha?"

What a stupid name.

"No, not I, not yet, but yourrr death iss so tempting, now, so near… I can almost taste it on you, child."

"What death do you taste on me, Sewer King?" That last remark was not a compliment.

"A death foretollld, a death plllanned forrr by the gods themselllves, heee! But I'lll not telll you more, not Schlumpsha, not the faithfulll sewerkin, nooo…"

"Must I take the nature of my fate from you by force?" She retorted, irritating biting her. This was becoming ridiculous. Was this some kind of practical joke, that she would keep running into morons alluding to Alaundo's prophecies; at this point, should she just call it now and declare herself a 'Child of Bhaal'? What utter nonsense.

"It woullllld be a plleasure, chilllld… Come, my sewerkin, it iss time to feed…"

Just how did this piddle-juice know anything about her? As a slime, she very much doubted it could be charmed… pity Edwin wasn't here to toss a fireball. That wizard really was overcompensating. Buuuuuut, she did have that potion Skie flinched… and off it went. Drawing on the silly dream, she put the fear of her into the creeper's minions, and then there was her hammer, which she kept tucked in the back of her belt, and a wand, and Schlumpsha was no more. Then it was a simple matter of picking off his 'sewerkin'.

Skie just offered her a confused look; she shrugged. "Who knows what he was drinking?"

A nervous titter.

Then there was Shvertszche, a zombie looking like creature. "Schtopp where you are, pale child."

This was becoming absurd. Also, what gave anyone the right to call her 'child'? Condescending illegitimate gets…

"Your flesh!" Cried Skie, "It's all green and alive and – and crawling! What has been done to you?!"

"Foolisch one, you mishtake a… schlopshe… a blessing for a curshe… schollpsh… What isss thish meagre flesch in the facshe of shusch terrific beauty? It isss Schlumpsha who hasssh done thisch to me and you would be blesshed schould he grant you the same privilege…"

Hecharna didn't listen to another word but unleashed her wand of fire on the creep. After the fireball that shot out just a tad too quickly for her liking – reminding her once again of a certain Thavyian – she slammed her hammer into it and showered the walls with… something. Whatever it was, it was disgusting. Skie wisely shielded her face and mouth; Hecharna wished she'd done the same. Definitely time for those potions of invisibility.

[…]

…They had found an entrance to the Iron Throne's cellars? Poking their heads up and out of it, hand in hand, they crept into a magnificent hall sheathed with green marble, colonnades, statues and a really, really high ceiling. No doubt about it. So they backed out, and took the next turn… and found themselves in the Undercellar. Creeping through that, Hecharna saw more than she'd ever cared to see – and felt like vomiting. She had a feeling Skie was giddy and had clamped her mouth to keep from chortling.

Maybe they'd come back later.

What a night.

[…]

Following Scar's directions, they headed east, their potions wearing off just as they found some overblown twit in the form of an ogre-mage. Another long speech beginning with "So, some puny surface dwellers have come to their death."

Blah, blah, blah.

Command, then… Splat! The wand of fireballs sent the ogre-mage's little crawling pets into a chargrilled feast for the rats, and Skie's arrow caught the brute between the eyes, just as Hecharna's hammer slammed into his ribcage with a sickening crunch. And that was another 1,000 gold. It really was as easy as that; how much the wielders of the Art relied on 'mirror image'… as long as she had the first shot, the battle, usually, was hers.

An enchanted scimitar, which was a strangely curved blade, heavy, and not something she cared for, and a couple of rings, one being made from ruby. That alone should more than outdo Scar's little reward. Not quite the heist she'd planned, but certainly not bad. As soon as she could wash the stink from her hair, nose, and the stinging from her eyes. She needed another potion of antidote… that was three each already. Then Skie shuddered and shakily pointed where the ogre-mage had placed the bodies… five of them. Hecharna went to give them their 'last rites' and took payment from them. Some more or less worthless items, another ruby ring, and an enchanted sword. It was a fair trade to keep them from rising as revenants, may they rest in peace.

[…]

Back to Scar and…

"Do you have any of the items possessed b the ogre's victims? I'm sure their families would like to have something to remember of their loved ones We know for a fact that the Sashenstar family lost a daughter to those creatures. She had a signet ring, a ring inset with a ruby."

Damnit.

"Yes, we did. We'll happily return it." Hecharna grated, knowing that most of the stores would be on alert for it now.

"I thank you for your honesty. I'll throw in a 3,000 gold bonus for the return of the items. Anyway, I'm going to need some people to do some investigating of the Iron Throne. I'm just going to finish up some paperwork, then I'll be just outside the main doors of the Flaming Fist compound. If you wish to discuss the Iron Throne, just come talk to me there."

In plain view of everyone and everything? What was wrong with this man? Was he dropped on the head as a baby, repeatedly? Is that how he got his name? Why not just talk to her there? And, also, why did he wait until now? He had just ruined her hijinks for the night! Whatever, she'd take the job, return to the inn, get herself all clean – with the help of potions slung in the water, and maybe enlist Skie's help with her hair and nails, and then get herself all bloodied again if the potions wore off before they reached the secret chambers within the Iron Throne. Bah.

[…]

"Hello, Hecharna." Spoke Scar. "I have another job for you. This one involves a group you have dealt with in the past – the Iron Throne. Duke Eltan himself wishes to speak to you about this. Will you come with me? Just follow me, I'll take you to the Flaming Fist compound. The Grand Duke is waiting for us."

The very same compound they both just stepped out of a few hours before? Hecharna wanted to scream. What was wrong with people in this city?!

[…]

A-blah, a-blah, a-blah, blah, blah. Duke Eltan, Lord Alliance's member, dealings with Iron Throne, blah. Zhentarim, tied hands, blah. Proof of involvement with caravan raids, 2,000 gold. Hardly seemed like a large reward, but eh. Why not? It's what she wanted anyway. Tomorrow night's heist was back on! Back to the tavern!

Just as well she'd left Skie behind in their room to wash her hair. Duke Eltan certainly would have noticed her, surely?

* * *

**A/N: As it so happens, Duke Eltan does not notice Skie amongst the party…  
Also: Hecharna does not recall ever giving out her name to the Flaming Fist. Spies in the city! Spies!**


	28. Chapter 6, part 7

**Chapter 6, part 7**

What was that Jhasso had said? Something about the Merchant's League? Maybe she should check that place out first. But… as it so happened, it was locked*.

* * *

***A/N: probably because that jerk wouldn't talk to Hecharna in Cloakwood, and thus, isn't there to trigger the quest… grr.**

* * *

Up through the basement and… accosted again.

"Out! Away! Fly while you can! There be madness here and I can stand it no longer!"

"Calm down, and explain yourself, good sir," Garrick attempted to console the lumbering wretch. As it turned out, Garrick, Eldoth and Shar-Teel had remained at the tavern all night; Shar-Teel drinking while Garrick and Eldoth had a 'battle of the bards' – no one cared enough to judge who won, no one but Skie and she was sound asleep by that point. Edwin had tried his luck at chance and cursed the spinning wheel.

"Calm down? Calm down while Sarevok's acolytes practice their magic cacophony above me? I daresay not, stranger! I daresay not at all!"

Then a guard. And this time, it was Eldoth, not to be outdone by Garrick, who oozed, "We're seeking employment with the Iron Throne. If you could just direct us to whom we should speak, we will be on our way."

Skie tried not to swoon and failed – Hecharna pinched her and got glared at for it, as Skie rubbed her arm.

"New employees, huh? Well, take yourselves up to the fourth floor; there you'll find some private offices. The men in those offices do all the hiring."

And like that, they were in. Hecharna would not be at all surprised if they were surrounded by doppelgängers. This was really a bad idea, wasn't it?

[…]

The next guard that stopped them: "Where do you think you're going?"

"The fifth floor," Hecharna cut in before anyone else could ruin things, "Sarevok asked us to deliver an important message to his acolytes."

"Hmph. Better you than me. Working with that crowd can be downright creepy, some days."

"Creepy, are they? I'll be sure to pass that along."

"I – I spoke out of – out of turn. My apologies. I'm – I'm very sorry, sir – ma'am – sir! Don't tell them. Please, you don't know what they'll do – They're so good, they're so very good, they're not creepy at all, I'm sorry–"

And that was how it was done. Rounding on 'the boys' – at this point, perhaps she should start a trope: Edwin for the pyrokinetics, Eldoth and Garrick at the side… maybe a cute little halfling as the front? She'd need to find one first. Might be easier than wrangling wyverns. – she fixed them each a look.

She really was liking this tower though. The green and the red really worked; the marble and the velvet, the columns and the couch, the statues and the rugs. Even the plants and those silly little kneeling cushions before the statues, as if they were depictions of their divine lords. She wasn't sure about the choice of paintings but that was okay. Gods, she hoped, let her actually be the lost heir to the Iron Throne and not what that sewer-slicker was alluding to… had the gods really ordained her death?

Then the next fool mistook them for guards…

"Wait a moment. Could you please tell me where I could find Rieltar? It's important that I speak to him. I've been given the run-around too long. Rieltar's damn son, Sarevok, seems to think he's in charge here."

"We must ask for a name before we go telling the whereabouts of the Iron Throne's high-ups." Eldoth all but slurred.

"I'm Nortuary, and your Iron Throne 'high-up' answers to me! I've just arrived from Selgaunt in Sembia. The council wishes to know how things are faring. Now tell me where I can find Rieltar!"

"Rieltar's in the upper offices at the moment. If you go there, I'm sure you'll catch him."

As soon as Nortuary was off – presumably to his death – one 'Emissary Tar' greeted them by calling them a 'boob' and 'dimwit'.

"I'm afraid you've mistaken us for someone else. I'm Dimwit, this is my good friend Boob, and behind me you'll find Brainless," (Edwin), "and Moron." (Eldoth). "How do you do?"

"My apologies. I have a tendency of coming across as a bit gruff. It comes with the title of Chief Negotiator for the Grand Dukes, I'm afraid. You may call me Emissary Tar. Now please, if we could start over. Where may I find the stairs to the fifth floor as it seems I have lost them utterly."

Right behind us? How short-sighted are you? Hecharna tried not to roll her eyes, then frowned. Why was she not accompanied by any kind of guard? Here, alone? That did not seem… prudent. "Would it be untoward of me to inquire as to the nature of your business on the fifth floor?" Perhaps they could accompany her.

"It is hardly a secret. The Grand Dukes have sent me to negotiate a new iron treaty with Thaldorn. It appears that the Merchants' League and the Seven Suns have voluntarily granted the Iron Throne temporary control over their mines in order to simplify the city's supply structure and thereby strengthen the war effort… should it come to that. I am here to ensure that we have access to that iron at a favourable price. The Iron Throne has been more than cooperative with us to date and I doubt they will change their tune now. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have no intention of being late for my negotiations."

Who was Thaldorn? Hecharna wanted to know. Well, this was the third floor, which meant, being a dimwit and a boob, the fourth floor was next and the fifth floor after that. Better ready those invisibility potions, of which she would need to restock at some point in the very near future.

The fourth floor held a bar with two merchants. She did not even need to buy any of them a drink.

"Ahhh look, some newcomers. I assume that the lot of you has just arrived with new supplies from Ordulin. If you're looking for Rieltar or Brunos, look no further. Both of them have travelled to Candlekeep on important business."

What in the Nine Hells? Candlekeep? Sewer drinking, piss swilling drunkard sons of goats! Their mothers were gnolls, their fathers' gnomes, …goat gnomes, and damn, damn, damnit! She could tell already; she was going to be sent to Candlekeep, probably by that Dimwit Eltan. What a nightmare. And that meant that whatever was up there on the fifth floor was probably a trap –

"Mmn, hello. You must be the city negotiators… Lemme see on the list here: Emissary… Emissary Tar? Right on time and a pleasure to meet you. My name is Destus Gurn, Assistant Chief Accountant for the Iron Throne's operations on the Sword Coast. Now, just a quick briefing on our negotiating procedures before you head up the stairs: Thaldorn will be accompanied by a board of six Iron Throne advisors sent to us from abroad: Zhalimar Cloudwulfe, Gardush, Naaman, Diyab, Aasim, and Alain, all of them quite respectable men and eager to meet you. We also have a seventh member on that board today, a Mr. Lyle Espejo. He is there to ensure that things go smoothly in this time of transition. As for the agenda–"

"Please, Mr. Gurn, I have my own copy of the agenda and no desire to waste any more time here than necessary. If you would be so kind as to allow me to proceed upstairs to the negotiations, I would be very grateful," Said Skie, the lie coming easily to her.

But hadn't Emissary Tar just headed upstairs? Hecharna frowned to herself. "I am afraid I have misplaced our agenda," She apologised, making a show of searching for it. Skie's brow narrowed at her.

"On the agenda, as you well know, are a discussion of our current offer regarding iron prices and some notes regarding the output of the new mines we have acquired. Preceding all of that, however, Mr. Espejo would like to have a few words with you about the positive change and dynamism, economic and otherwise, that he has been witness to in his recent travels through the Sword Coast region. I do not doubt that you will find it interesting. But I have taken enough of your time. Please proceed upstairs so that the negotiations may begin."

Definitely, _definitely_ a trap. Something did not smell right here at all, and for once, it wasn't either Eldoth or Edwin. Hecharna sniffed. Had those two been sharing scented oils and beard grease? What was wrong with them? And that Gurn fellow… he looked like a gnome had bred with a goblin. There was something weird about him. About all of them.

Still… onto the back offices. Books… so many books, shelves, rugs… and a few tables. Such lavish furnishings. What a treasure this place was.

"We were sent here with the understanding that you did all the hiring for the Iron Throne?" Skie ventured to the fat man in the office.

"I apologise. Someone has made a mistake; we are hiring no one at the moment. I hope there hasn't been too much of an inconvenience, but could you please leave now?"

Annnnd charm!

"If you're looking for Rieltar and Brunos, you'll find them at Candlekeep. There's some sort of clandestine rendezvous at the library."

…This wasn't getting any better, was it?

"New recruits." Lied Eldoth.

"Oh, I see." Spake the barman. "Well, if ye're wondering where you'll be assigned, I'd bet it would be with the Blacktalons down in the Wood of Sharp Teeth. They've lost quite a few members lately and are in desperate need of new recruits."

And yet no one was hiring… definitely, definitely, definitely a trap. Also, why didn't he offer them a drink?

[…]

Sneaking past what was clearly an ambush, given how the men were arrayed and how there was no negotiating table, Hecharna and Shoal slipped through and took a peek into the backrooms. A corpse which looked suspiciously like Emissary Tar lay on the ground, which was odd, given how 'Emissary Tar' was standing with the seven men. Across the hall there was another man – Thaldorn – whom Shoal used her feminine wiles on.

"I'm one of the western divisional leaders of the Iron Throne. The others are at Candlekeep negotiating with the Knights of the Shield. We have been creating a misinformation campaign to blame the Zhentarim for all the troubles in the region. We are trying to create tensions between the governments of Baldur's Gate and Amn. With iron being the most important resource in a war, the Baldurian government will have to go to us in order to get any. We have disrupted all the iron trade through the region using the Blacktalon mercenaries and the Chill. The only known iron mine in the region is at Nashkel, and we have effectively crippled that mine. We have our own mine operating in Cloakwood.

"When the Baldurian government comes to us for iron, we will be able to make exorbitant trade demands, and thus become the preeminent trading power in this region."

Hecharna already knew all of this, except for the Knights of the Shield part. She could almost feel herself salivating. She wanted in. Sure, she could have this fool turn himself over to Scar – assuming she could get him through the door, but… oh, what would it take to become part of this little ploy?

Yet in the backroom…

* * *

_Father,_

_I have received your letter, and I can assure you that the mercenaries led by Hecharna will no longer trouble our operations. I have dealt with them personally. Before dying, they were most forthcoming in their revelations. It is as you had surmised: They were agents of the Zhentarim. I am also writing to tell you that I cannot attend the meeting at Candlekeep. Some problems have arisen with the Chill and the Blacktalons. They have had trouble working with each other, and I am needed there to smooth over any dissension. I am sorry that I will not be at your side._

_Sarevok._

* * *

Well, well, well. How about that? Also, silence invocation, then wand of fireball. Then four more fireballs from said wand. As it turned out, 'Emissary Tar' was a doppelgänger. Who would have guessed?

A few magical trinkets, a few spell scrolls, a bit of gold, hardly worth mentioning. Oh, and a letter. She needed to ensure that her group never clustered together and always kept an eye out for wands pointed at them from bushes.

Back to Eltan. She would bet all 45,372 of her gold coins that Candlekeep was her next payday, and given Sarevok's little lies, no doubt a trap. The question was: why? Maybe she should try and find the Iron Throne shares while she was there, maybe a vault? Something?

Breaking open the scroll, Hecharna mused.

* * *

_I have a task for you and those you have selected._

_You, the first of the faithful, are to stand ground in my stead._

_Be assured that I would not belittle your devotion with simple guard duty. This chore is of particular interest to me, and thus to you._

_Hecharna has become as a thorn in my side. I wish it removed._

_Do so, and you shall please me greatly._

_Such is your charge._

_Do not fail me in this._

_Sarevok_

* * *

'First of the faithful' … 'belittle your devotion'? What an interesting turn of phrase. Did this Sarevok see himself as some kind of high priest?

Which was strange, because as she stared back down the hall towards the dual stairwells leading to the lower levels, there was a statue in the centre, a statue that had the strangest armour and helm… almost… like that armour she had seen that night. But it couldn't be.

The roof held nothing of interest besides the spectacular view. It was perfect up there, beyond a broken piece of iron fencing.

[…]


	29. Chapter 6, part 8

**Chapter 6, part 8 - "Moments, A moment."**

_Back in their room…_

Did she even like Skie, Hecharna mused to herself, side-eying the girl as the duke's daughter artlessly tugged a brush through her matted russet locks. The brush caught, and the girl's lips flickered and with several sharp tugs, she pulled it free and continued.

Was it simply that she saw an Imoen in Skie? No, that wasn't it. Befriending Skie might save her from the noose if it ever came to that, but… that was only some of it.

The girl met her with a brilliant smile as she looked up and caught the half elf's gaze. Hecharna returned a tight crease of her lips, and watched, as though she were observing someone else and not her own self, as Skie trotted over and cleaning the brush, began to work on her own dark hair unbidden. The human hummed to herself as she worked, sighing as she let the silken mess that was Hecharna's mane sift through her fingers. In spite of everything, Hecharna felt herself relaxing, her locked shoulders which tensed as Skie drew near lowering against the girl, drawing in the human's firm warmth.

If Skie were an assassin, a part of her mind knew, this was the time for her to strike. For once, her guard wasn't high; Eldoth could be anyone, Skie a plant, and who was she to know if she had met the real Entar Silvershield and Brilla? It might be elaborate, too elaborate, but it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

Skie lowered herself to Hecharna's ear and fussed, gathering her hair into bunches.

What was she about to do now? Hecharna's heart gave a start and her belly plummeted. Surely not pigtails?

It was not to be; instead, Skie murmured something about 'shopping' and 'fixing' things, how dire Hecharna's split ends were, and then the girl's chin sank against Hecharna's shoulder. Each girl's sideways squint met squarely in the middle, and Skie's lips twitched, partially forming the beginnings of what almost seemed to resemble a 'thank', but it died. Instead, she rubbed Hecharna's upper arms, and with the enthusiasm that had always eluded Hecharna, declared more than suggested that they should get her new clothes.

Hecharna's jaw clamped up along with her abruptly dry throat.

"C'mon, it'll be fun," Skie promised, proceeding to think aloud of which seamstresses were both discreet and excelled at their job, followed by what kind of material. Shou silk might look nice on her, but perhaps something else.

Hecharna met her flatly, irritation flaring out of nowhere. Any clothes they purchased would be ruined–

Skie waved her hand, dismissing the notion more quickly than yesterday's news, which was, of course, the 'heroes of Nashkel'; no one remembered or cared now. Instead, still leaning over her, the daughter of Entar Silvershield mouthed a single word: magic.

That was enough to set the half elf blinking. That had never really occurred to her.

And, Skie informed her brightly, she did know her way around a needle and thread and rolled her eyes as she elongated 'embroidery'.

Curtly, Hecharna shook her head; for a second, she had let herself daydream, but it wasn't practical.

"Oh, come on," Skie caught her arm and shook on it, pulling it against her. "We need to look the part."

What part, she wondered.

"We're going to Candlekeep, aren't we? I can read." She sniffed. Outside, the bustle of the day had lulled as it always did at this time. "We can get it specially made for our needs; we could be matching!"

Hecharna's lower lip caught between her teeth. The nobles of the city were dressed finely. It might be a nice disguise… and it would be nice to have a mantelet, some new leggings… how many times had she caught a glimpse of Skie's and felt envy bit her?

"The weather's turning," Skie confided, her hands painting the sea winds.

The truth was, putting off the journey back did have a growing appeal with every moment that passed. Returning… home; something inside her just clamped up. The fidgets overtook her, and the need to relieve herself without needing to go stalked her. There was a tingle at the base of her spine, and she was uncomfortably aware of how she was sitting, as if all her clothes were trying to strangle her.

With a sigh, she shifted her weight and allowed her gaze to trail to the window.

"You need a bath," Skie announced primly, poking at the side of Hecharna's neck. "You're like a stone golem."

"Do you love him?" Hecharna retorted.

"…Eldoth? Of course." Her girl's brown eyes grew dreamy. "He's wonderful. The way he sings…" She even went so far as to clasp her hands together and lift them to her cheek. "Why do you ask?"

She shrugged and turned away.

Concern flashed across Skie's eyes. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Nevermind," She ended the conversation, then smiled.

The girl's pursing lips drew into a line.

"How well do you know him?" Hecharna's eyes snapped onto the duke's daughter's. "Really know him?"

"Um, a lot. Why are you asking?"

"I don't want you to get your heart broken." Hecharna rose, now of a height with Skie, the latter's foot being on the chair and her back arched, elbow on her leg, hand cupping her jaw.

"Oh. I can take care of myself." Skie offered her most reassuring smile.

Why did she even bother?

"But… if you did know something, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?" Skie's voice became very small, her face seeming to contract. "'Cause we're friends and friends look out for each other."

…Where had she heard _that_ before? Vitriol sullied her thoughts.

"We are friends, aren't we?" Skie's voice was even smaller than before and her eyes traced the patterns on the velveteen rug.

It wasn't that Hecharna didn't want to answer, it was her throat refused to allow it.

"I thought we were…" Head hanging more fully, Skie's shoulders offered the slightest tremor.

"I haven't seen the man you describe." Hecharna allowed carefully, taking time over each word.

"Oh." Skie brightened. "It takes a while to know him. You'll see, I promise!"

She was on the verge of offering to find a temple to cast a truth spell on them, to tell her about Eldoth and the cook, but… something held her back. What if Skie asked something else, something more? Imoen would have given her a sisterly hug, or clap on the shoulder, told her that her door was always open, that best friends shared everything… why did she even care? Part of her rationalised that if Eldoth ever got Skie with child, it would be a nightmare, and they would all dangle from a noose unless they found a cleric willing to… she wasn't even going to go down that route.

"Is there anyone you like?" Skie asked somewhere between cagily and coyly, not quite knowing, not quite mischievously, but with a shy almost twinkle in her.

"What me? No."

"Not even…" The duke's daughter lowered her voice, "Edwin?"

"Edwin? Gods, have you completely taken leave of your senses?" Hecharna would have spat her drink had she had one.

"Garrick? He seems like a nice boy…"

"They share half a brain between them."

Skie giggled, then sighed, slipping her arm around Hecharna's shoulders as she fell into her. "I know you'll meet someone." The girl smiled with all the sincerity and confidence in the world. "He might be just around the corner, or someone you know but never looked at!"

"Skie, I'm not–" Why was she even discussing this? Didn't Skie have a nail to tend to or something? "I'll tell you if there is, okay?"

"Promise?" Skie held out her pinkie finger, as solemnly as any cleric for the morn rites.

With visible reluctance, Hecharna extended her own, barely refraining from another clipped headshake.

"No going back," Skie warned, then loosed another dreamy sigh. "I know you'll love being in love, Hec. It's like walking over rooftops. Nothing can trouble you, and all that matters is what your heart sings."

"Is that what you really believe?" She certainly couldn't.

As solemnly as before, Skie nodded. "I know he isn't perfect, but he's perfect for me and that's what counts."

How could she possibly tell her what a sleezebag Eldoth really was? How could she not?

"So are you going to tell me what you know now? What about now? Nooooow?"

Skie giggled as Hecharna shoved her and tried to stand up; the weight of the other girl dragged her down. With increasing irritation, Hecharna tugged her arm free and found that Skie was side-on slumped over her lap, elbow on the arm of the chair, legs crossed at the ankle somewhere off to the side. Letting her hand fall, the half elf accidentally brushed Skie's hair, and there was another dreamy sigh.

"Eldoth used to do that," Skie confided, then her face fell as her frown furrowed, her lips moving as she seemed to be counting.

Feeling a surge of guilt and something else that she couldn't pinpoint beyond how uncomfortable it was, both Skie's angle and bearing weight, Hecharna awkwardly petted her.

"I'm not a cat!" Skie laughed but seemed to curl inwards.

"Like… this?"

Skie returned a remarkable cat-like purr.

With a heavier sigh, Hecharna continued stroking her …friend's… hair for several long moments. She had stopped counting when the last bell sounded but by the time the next had, Skie was all but asleep, her arms cushioning her face as she braced herself inside of the half elf's lap. How could she tell Skie about her brother's death? That she found the body, her brother's body? Why was there such implicit trust from the girl towards her? What was it like to feel loved even if the one doing it was a complete and utter creep? She couldn't imagine her heart ever singing for anyone. Maybe Skie was just a silly, naïve girl, but she believed what she was saying.

Closing her eyes, Hecharna dashed away the uninvited gathering pool, steadied herself with a deep breath, and reaching down, placed a gentle kiss, perhaps the first she'd ever given, on Skie's temple, allowing her lips to draw along the girl's hair as her head lifted.

The truth was, Eldoth hadn't ever voiced a complaint when Hecharna more or less pulled Skie to bunk with her; if anything, the oily sneer held relief, relief he wouldn't have to deal with her. Skie was crushed, but soon got over it, thinking it was an adventure. Of course it was easy to believe it was an adventure when the best rooms with the best sheets and amenities were hired, when they could actually afford salve for the long, footsore days, the aching calves, the pinch and chaff from their armours; when they had hot baths with oils to wash away the sweat, dirt and grease. Perhaps they were living the high life, the adventure Imoen so craved and sought after...

If it was Imoen, would she have told her about her brother, about Eldoth; if it had been Imoen holding her, not Skie, would she have whispered those truths or held back to keep from hurting her? But it didn't matter because she wasn't Imoen. Unconsciously, her hand continued to stroke Skie's hair, smoothing it all the way down her lower back, and then, Hecharna murmured, her mouth so acrid it almost stung, "Skie…?"

Nothing.

She drew a breath. The girl's chest rose and fell in regular movements. Hecharna's eyes drew shut. "There's something I should tell you… something you should know. I… I was part of a group that found your brother. He was days dead by the time we got there. You shouldn't see death like that, but I guess you saw it in the sewers; bloated, puffy… maggots. It was grotesque.

"I… I performed the rites on him, so he wouldn't rise. We had no way of getting through to the city. Even if the bridge guard had let us cross, even if we made it to your father's estate… the roads were swarming with bandits. Maybe we should have tried. I'm sorry we didn't.

"I could have taken a finger, wrapped it, put it in a pouch… your father might have the connections for a resurrection spell. I should have and didn't. I'm so sorry, Skie."

She realised her hands had bunched the girl's tunic to the point where the taut cloth creaked and strained. Slowly, she forced her fingers to let go. "I can take you to his… grave. We don't always bury those we come across, sometimes there isn't time, just as there's not always time to give them the proper rites, but we try to. I try to. Even the hobgoblins I spoke the rites over. Not the kobolds. I should have. We should have gathered their bodies and burnt them.

"You weren't there at the bandit encampment in the forest. You never saw what they did to those they nailed to their command hut. Gods, I hope you never have to see anyone flayed open…" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, a half croak, her lips cracking. "You don't know what it's like. You think it's a fun romp through the sewers… there are people after my life, this… Sarevok. I don't know why. I used to imagine that I was the lost heir of the Iron Throne, but these weirdos keep telling me I'm cursed by the gods. Maybe they're right."

Shaking her head, she let her head roll onto her chest, her eyes squeezing tighter, her fists on her thighs between her naval and Skie's curled form.

"We met Eldoth in Cloakwood forest. He pretended he was running from gnolls but never said what he was doing there. Maybe he was hunting, but I never understood why he wasn't in the Friendly Arm Inn or Beregost, or somewhere. It's like he was just waiting there for someone and we were the first idiots to come along. Or maybe he had tracked us, but Kivan, he was an elf who lost his wife, he's back there right now, helping Kagain, if he hasn't run off. Kagain was the dwarf that hired us to help protect the caravans your brother was with…

"But yeah, Eldoth. I don't know what he was doing or where he came from. There was a bunch of stuck up twerps, nobles too good to talk to us at a hunting lodge fairly close by, so maybe Eldoth had journeyed with them and snuck off? I don't know. I thought he was an assassin at first. Just another but then he started telling us about you, and I thought it had to be a scam, a trick, that maybe he was just manipulating you and you were too stupid, too young, and you just went along with him."

She hesitated. It didn't matter now, but she leant closer in, her lips pressed against Skie's ear, with only the girl's hair curtaining the half elf's breath. "There's a mine in Cloakwood. No one but the Iron Throne and us knows about it. We fought our way through it, putting the guards to the sword. I was going to leave no one standing but there were slaves there. That isn't the whole truth. The truth is I want that mine for myself. I want in on the scam the Iron Throne is running… we could make a fortune from it. But after what we saw today… maybe they're not as strong as I thought. I don't know. We couldn't find their records, their ledgers; you know, you were there as we checked. I wanted to buy shares in their company, to be there as the iron became more valuable than gold.

"I could have flooded that mine. I could have had the slaves run – the spiders probably would have got them, or the patrols we missed… but I could have. I didn't, I chose not to. I wanted that mine for myself.

"It wasn't just slaves there either. There was an apprentice mage to the master of the mines, Davaeron. We killed him. There was also the cook. She had a mouth on her, called the boys 'handsome stags', wanted to…" She caught herself. "She wanted them all in the kitchen. She probably has a pox. Edwin – I dragged him away, and I would have clipped Garrick's ear if he had dawdled, but Eldoth? He dallied, staying behind while the rest of us moved on. He rejoined us a little later but… I don't know if anything happened, but I can't promise you it didn't. All I know is the smug smirk he wore when he got back. Now you know. I'm not… worth your friendship. I'm so sorry, Skie."

With a slow sigh, she allowed her head to roll back against the head of the chair, and exhaled, her eyes still closed. Then she heard, or rather felt, the softest of stirrings.

"Skie?" Hecharna cracked one eye open. The girl still appeared to be sleeping. Perhaps it was for the best. She'd ask her about her dreams when she woke. The half elf patted the human's lower back, making allowances as Skie shifted in her sleep.

There was no point returning the girl to her father's estate; she'd only run away again. She'd take her shopping, endure all the fussing, pretend, even allow herself to have a little fun, drink with her at the bar, and maybe, just maybe, make up for things just a little. Even if it wasn't entirely her fault, she couldn't give the girl back her brother, and she couldn't stop her infatuation with Eldoth; all she could do was stand between them, and maybe, just maybe, follow Edwin and Eldoth as they snuck off to the Undercellar, which now they had time, the pair were sure to do.

They'd probably drag Garrick along and ruin him, plying him with Black Lotus and let him wake up somewhere cold and alone. Eldoth might even think it funny. If Kagain were here, she'd have him watch the boy, or Kivan, but they weren't there; even Branwen might. Shar-Teel? Shar-Teel was like a blazing bolt from an overwound crossbow. She needed to be aimed at a foe and loosed. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring her along. But Kivan would not have done well in this cesspit of a city, she suspected. Nine Hells, reading that tome on leadership had poisoned her thoughts; she hadn't felt responsible for her shields until then, had she? …Or had she? No, it was definitely that book.

She felt herself seize up, then forced herself to stretch. Maybe she should get some rest, but she didn't feel like sleeping. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to dream another of those dreams, sailing on a ship named 'Persistence' under sails of 'resolve'. More like a ship named 'Indecision' under sails of 'bloodied guilt and self-doubt'.

Very carefully, she slid her arms under Skie and lifted her; while not exactly heavy, she wasn't a slip of a girl either; she was too tall for that, or perhaps, Hecharna was too short, but the half elf was still able to heft her onto the bed. Drawing one knuckle along the daughter of the grand duke's cheek, Hecharna inhaled through her nose, bent, and placed a second gentle kiss on Skie's brow and prayed over her. It was the least she could do. Not that she expected Oghma to grant the girl dreams, sweet or otherwise.

There were days when she hated her patron, she realised, for too much knowing and not enough. But Oghma wasn't her real patron; he was just the face of knowledge, the persona manifesting. No, power was what she craved, the power of self-determination, of agency, and knowledge was the path to that power. Knowledge of scrolls, of tomes, and… knowledge of self. Maybe it was time she started taking what those weirdos said seriously and asking the questions she'd always had but never given form to, questions such as who was Gorion, who was he _really_? Why had he only told her snippets about her mother but never her father? Why was she an orphan? Was she really cursed by the gods, and if so, what was that curse, how did it pertain to her life, and what did it mean?

In short: who was she?

Her hand brushed Skie's soft cheek, tucking the girl's hair behind her ear. How simply this poor, naïve child trusted, how easily she extended her friendship; was she an Eldoth? She felt nothing inside that offered any glimpse of attraction; is that what all predators felt, or did they hunger for the hunt, the thrill of the hunt like braying wolves after a rabbit or young doe? Eldoth certainly seemed disinterested. Could her light touches steer this doe down a path of her choosing, or would she have to resort to kisses to extend her hold over her, as Eldoth did? Or maybe she would just hold out her arms and the little bunny-rabbit would hop of her own volition into her lap?

Her lips and innards twisted, and she felt the bitter sting of foodless vomit singe her. Is that what she was? After all, she intended to dominate the Cloakwood mines; she had agreed to kidnapping this child in order to blackmail her father for money; Skie was worth far, far more than mere coin though. The influence she could one day extend would be vast indeed; should she survive, she would inherit her father's lands and fortune, unless Grand Duke Entar and Brilla had another son, that was.

And had they not amassed a number of interesting items during their travels, amongst them cursed rings and a girdle, the latter of which, when donned, transformed one's sex? But what hope could she have against a bard whose voice was purer than an Aasimar's, darker than an erinyes?

Yet… no one knew that the Silvershield son was dead, no one except Kagain, Xzar, Kivan and Garrick. With such a girdle, could Skie not assume her brother's identity, his speech, his mannerisms… might her father not be convinced to turn over control of… some of the fortune, to build a merchant company from it, perhaps buy out the Seven Suns? Or perhaps the Merchant's League? And, a part of her considered grimly, Eldoth did not seem the sort to hold his interest long, especially if his venture wasn't profitable; he might be the sort to lie with other men, but somehow, she doubted it: he was far too self-absorbed. What was the word? Egotistical, narcissistic? Certainly as much as Edwin, if not more. It was hard to say which one of the two used more oil in their beard, on their hair; they were both as vain as each other, always preening.

Another, equally cold and dark thought crept into her mind: were Skie to don such a girdle and Eldoth abandoned her, casting her aside for the whores of the Undercellar as he was surely bound to, for what other nature had he? – then who would Skie turn to for comfort? Garrick, perhaps; Edwin? Certainly not. Or her promised friend. Would the magic of the girdle, should she be able to convince Skie to don it without charming her, be powerful enough that if one night, Skie was sufficiently warmed and soothed with Westgate Ruby, in the sex of her brother, she were to take she, Hercharna, to bed, would she find herself with child? That was a hold far greater than any Eldoth could claim.

With an abrupt headshake she halted and scattered such thoughts; why was she even pondering such paths? Is that what she had become, what she had stooped to? She had no interest in …that, nor in Skie. Was she so bitter that she would accept a shadow of the love Skie proclaimed, or was she just angry and hurting? Was she so broken she would become as destructive as Edwin's lack of aim as he unleashed his fireballs too close to the group? Did she really want to scald, no, burn this sweet girl who was so desperate to take her shopping? What kind of monster was she?

Slumping back into her chair, she sank down heavily and pondered the choices and decisions she had made to that point, of all the blood she'd seen spilt, that she herself had spilt, her path that seemed to inevitably point towards Candlekeep, towards this Rieltar and Brunos, these men whose names were on the letters that had dogged her and ordered her death but whose faces she had never seen.

Who was the man in armour with that woman and the 'lackeys', as Gorion had put it. Were they greater than the so-called 'first of the faithful'? Where had Tazok run off to? She felt so, so tired, bone-weary, even. It wasn't even close to being sleepy, nothing like the cute kind that would see Imoen curl up in pyjamas or a nightshirt; it was as if there was nothing left in her, only a heavy, dragging weight that she couldn't even lift her arm against. And yet, somewhere beneath that was something else… a fire, an unsated burning fire, slow, but with sharp sparks, spikes, towering pillars that wanted to become an inferno. A… darkness.

She must be cursed. Why else would any of this be happening? Maybe Firebead knew and had given her that book for a reason, the book that spoke of Jergal, of Bane, Myrkul and Bhaal. Bane and Torm slew one another in 1358 DR, if her lessons served, and Myrkul and Bhaal were also dead. That was twenty years ago; the Time of Troubles was over. But what was that that one chanter was always blathering? 'The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he has spawn a score of mortal progeny; chaos shall be sown in their passage: so sayeth the wise Alaundo.'

Was it passing or passage? She could never remember. She could hear the chant in her mind now, like a ringing gong, over and over, dulling her senses. There were other chants too. Well, if Alaundo wasn't full of wind and actually had seen a vision, something she wasn't entirely certain she believed, and indeed, why should she? There was magic, creatures magical and mystical, but there was also mortals, and their greed and selfishness. Maybe Alaundo was twisting things, like most of the temples, in order to raise himself up, just like most of the gods had, including Bhaal, Bane and Myrkul… but if he had, and if Bhaal really had been sowing his seed like a farmer in mortal women, it would have been before 1358 DR, or maybe right up until his death in 1358 DR, and… if twenty years had passed… then they would be coming of age.

"…Piddling ogre dungheap offal, drown in sewage and burn your eyelids off with the desert winds as sand scratches out your eyes; may your intestines become infested and bloated until they burst, damn you to all Nine Hells Gorion if you failed to tell me I was one of these 'seeds'–"

"Hec?" Skie's eyes cracked open, "Did you say something?"

"Nothing sweetheart," Hecharna reached over and kissed the girl without thinking, still swearing furiously in her mind, "Go back to sleep." Her hand caressed the human's cheek, smoothing her hair, the term of endearment rolling off her tongue as naturally as breathing. That didn't occur to Hecharna until later.

"Godsblood, I had better not be one of these 'seeds'," Hecharna uttered under her breath. "That settles it; I have to find his effects. They've probably been divvied up but maybe, just maybe, he had the good sense to enchant them, maybe I can unbind that… or perhaps he left some kind of key. What would that foolish old man have used… probably something sentimental like a locket, or a sprig of hair–"

"Hec?" Skie complained.

"Huh? Oh, sorry honey, I was recounting our finances… for our shopping trip. Shh now. Rest."

With a happy little smile, Skie did just that, even as Hec continued to fume. She needed to report their findings to that damnable Grand Duke. Maybe he would possess that ten thousand gold Winthrop claimed she needed; she had her own funds, of course, all 40,000 plus of them, but making this petty Duke pay was far more satisfying. Besides, Winthrop was known to lie: maybe ten thousand wouldn't be enough and she would need some tome or other; it would be just the Gate Warden's style to demand that of _her_, shoving his elitist, snobby attitude down her throat, just to let her know her place… by all Oghma's wisdom, she wanted to scream.

Duke Eltan had better have a solution, otherwise she might just break into Candlekeep and scale the walls. There were magical wards in place, she knew, and Edwin wouldn't be strong enough to break them, but perhaps… maybe one of the caves on the beaches she and Imoen used to play along would provide a path? They never delved too deeply but they both knew from Winthrop's tales there were secrets buried beneath the library. There were probably smugglers too, if Winthrop wasn't lying about that as well.

Well, she'd find out, and when she finally caught up to Rieltar, he would rue the day he ever crossed her. She hadn't started any of this, but she was going to see him dead for it. He was probably the man who slew her mentor, had caused the bandits and thereby, caused Imoen's death, and she would see his head on a plate before she had it stuffed and mounted. But… maybe she could deliver him to Eltan, assuming that his and Scar's 'clandestine' operations weren't a trap, a way for them to steal the glory for themselves and then quietly dispose of herself and her shields. In fact… maybe that's exactly what it was. A claim he couldn't trust his own people, but it was awfully convenient. It was even more convenient that they were doing his dirty work; what skeletons did the man have? How much dirty laundry was there? Who would miss her or her little band? As soon as she returned to Eltan, they would be trapped inside the Flaming Fist compound, or perhaps he'd try to have them meet him in some back alley. This was far too similar to the tactics the Iron Throne used… there was no way this wasn't another ambush and she had walked right into it. Gods curse all power mongering 'Dukes' and their – no, she would sort this herself. If the gods had cursed her, she didn't need their help for this. She worshipped knowledge, power. Power came in many forms, including the help of others, but it also came from self-determination. And she was determined to see this through.

But Eltan could wait. On the morrow, she would have her little shopping spree with Skie, she would spread her fame – but not yet. That could be just as dangerous as the Iron Throne were still present and her face was still known. Well, there was magic for disguising herself: perhaps she could polymorph into a half orc, or maybe not. Her clothes wouldn't fit, not unless they were enchanted to move with her. She'd need to find a polymorph scroll too and make copies of it, which would take time. Or she could just buy enough to see her through. Still, she didn't know when Rieltar had left for Candlekeep or how long the negotiations would take.

She needed a backup plan. Before Candlekeep, she would stop by Kagain's store and hopefully, by the time she got there, she'd have thought of a plan if everything went awry, which it might. What she needed were some doppelgängers of her own, someone she could place a geas on or otherwise bind to her and sent it with her face to Eltan and his little trap. Someone who was expendable. Someone that was …possibly stable? Xzar might be willing; nevermind he was her 'protégé', he was of the Zhentarim and that would cause problems sooner or later. Perhaps this was the proverbial killing two birds with one stone from one swing of the sling. Any idiot could pick up the stone and kill as many birds as they wanted as long as the stone didn't break. She had to be smart. Xzar had outlived his usefulness and had become a liability; cold as that was, she knew in her heart it was true.

She had to lay any fondness she might feel aside. She would miss him, but he wasn't her friend, hadn't pinkie sworn. She had to protect herself, and Skie, and maybe Garrick too. That idiot boy didn't deserve a blade in his gut because he was too busy being starry-eyed to see what was really going on. He might deserve a slap upside the head, but his head was hers to slap so long as he was her shield. Edwin's service would expire sooner or later, but right now she needed him too; she really needed Xzar's expertise too, but since he had been turning in reports on her, that made him even more of a liability at best; at worse, a traitor, and it was time she dealt with that.

As for Kagain, she needed to reaffirm who was leading this little venture; Branwen too. If she was gone for too long, they might start to forget. The dwarf would probably shuffle around his shop but she couldn't afford to take chances. Sending a message by magic was risky, foolhardy even; it was better to go in person and hope they weren't followed. As for Shar-Teel… now she had a target to aim her at: Rieltar. She just had to ensure the fool was taken alive. She could deal with the son at a later date.

[…]


	30. Chapter 7, part 1

**Chapter 7, part 1 – Full Circle: The Journey Home**

**A/N: Increasingly I have felt the constraints of the little rules I set down when I began this piece, those being:**

**\- Writing around core dialogue**

**\- No AUing (which gradually became minimal AUing)**

**\- Vanilla BG only (no mods, which became minimal rule changes)**

**While it has been an interesting challenge so far, I feel that we have reached the point in our little narrative where our fearless heroine is in dire need of being allowed to breathe: her slow but consistent character development over the course of the fic has often run into the wall that my writing constraints supplied, although I've chosen to put theme before rules. The last chapter in particular is an example of this as the piece grows beyond its original construction, and growth is good. **

**Thematically, if I remain true to Hecharna, I feel that the narrative is going to shift, so from hereon out, I'm loosening those constraints but only as fits the character.**

**All of which is to say that there will probably be more breaks in our usual schedule to allow for further pauses and reflection outside of what the canon dialogue offers.**

**As ever, enjoy!**

* * *

_Your journey has come full circle. Duke Eltan has asked that you travel back to Candlekeep, where you must spy upon the leaders of the Iron Throne. While it troubles you that such evil men now make use of the great library, and you wish the circumstances of your visit would be different, it will still be a pleasure to return to your former home._

* * *

From across the narrow sliver of rock that joined the outcrop to the mainland, the gates of Candlekeep loomed before her. Hecharna found herself paralysed, unable to pull her eyes from the sight. The soaring turrets, the great keep and curtain wall… home…

Beside her, Garrick struck a pose and declared something nonsensical. Skie placed her hand on Hecharna's shoulder; coming out of it, the half elf found her turning and smiling at the girl, taking her hand and squeezing it with her own gloved one. Nearby, Edwin lounged, bored, a tedium matched only by Eldoth.

Hecharna found herself studying the outline of the Watchers on the walls, the silhouette of the slow fading sun. If they hurried, they'd make it to the Candlekeep Inn… and Winthrop. A queasy feeling in her stomach erupted. No one here knew about Imoen. Xzar was the only one who had seen her death. Once the lumbering oaf of an innkeep asked after Imoen, she could lie. Or could she? Maybe this was a mistake. But they had to press on.

…Or did she? Could she simply send her shields in alone – the thought erupted in internal laughter before it even finished. Of course she couldn't.

The hurried journey from 'the Gate' had led them to Beregost, with a couple of ankhegs who had foolishly chosen to cross their path and given their shells as tribute, a brief stop in with that rude town smith, and then onto Kagain's.

Kagain… Hecharna sighed inwardly, bracing herself for the next step. Kagain was incompetent and had no business managing a business… in the time they'd been apart, the surly dwarf had sunk deeper into his cups and moped without purpose. Kivan had taken off on his own, as she feared he might, but Kagain mumbled that the elf tended to return every few days. It appeared Kivan tired of waiting around and patrolled in search of prey, both elk and scalps. That was well and good; at least he was being productive and bringing in some kind of upkeep. Branwen had failed to build her her bathhouse yet or even find the contractors to extend Kagain's store yet… What on earth had they been doing? Polytheizing? Drinking? Had Tranzig simply put Branwen in her nature state: an inanimate statue?

Was her presence required to handhold everyone? So she had left Shoal there: hopefully, the bond they shared would allow her to commune between Candlekeep and Beregost, and hopefully not unravel. She could still feel Shoal's presence, albeit faint. If she concentrated, it became stronger.

Since leaving Baldur's Gate, she had given Dusty a scroll: polymorph self. It had kept the mephit entertained all this time. Perhaps it would prove to be a mistake. For herself, she had stocked up on more scrolls since leaving Baldur's Gate: perhaps summoning further shields to her cause would prove helpful; Bassilus might have had the right notion after all. Of course, having animated skeletons around might raise some eyebrows but perhaps animals…

Hecharna took a deep, long breath and drew in the sea breeze. She could taste the brine from the spray far below saturating the air; it filled her nostrils, the back of her throat, and its familiar taste unlocked a trove of memories. Taking stock of herself, she tried to ignore the dampness underarm, her soaked gambeson, the trickling sweat that gathered at the small of her back and seeped down, stinging and itching as it joined her underlayers. Her woollen leggings stuck against her and the prospect of peeling them off was not one she relished. There were blisters on her toes, knots in her soles, her socks were a saltine quagmire, and her gusset had long since become an irritant. The straps about her pinched; her breasts were crushed against the ankheg plate and the straps that ran across the side and back of her upper thighs chafed; she was certain it was rubbing her raw.

Sipping a healing potion every fifteen minutes or so did only so much. The constant false urge to relive herself grated and she set her teeth, which saw her jaw clamp and that began to ache too. She sorely would have loved to have flown that wyvern now; was there not a spell that could summon one?

But truly, all of it was normal: that was the price of journeying, especially so well armed. Skie winced every so often and they paused more than Hecharna would have liked, with her adjusting the girl's leathers and she tending to herself and directing Skie to tighten this or that strap on her ankheg. It was one of the things she missed from Kagain: for all his sullenness, the dwarf was stalwart and knew how to handle mail.

Those brief pauses allowed Edwin to mutter to himself and rest those slippers of his, a passing fancy from the Gate, which resulted in a few seconds peace before the muttering resumed. Eldoth had somehow procured a halfling pipe and had taken to smoking, a thing that made Skie splutter and cough, and kept her far away. Hecharna almost left Shar-Teel back at the shop, almost brought Kagain, nearly brought Xzar, but then thought better of it. She would need Xzar out of Candlekeep as the trigger to Eltan's ploy. She realised she detested the grand duke. There was something about him that set her on edge, a harshness about his countenance; he might be jovial but there was an arrogance about him that belied that. He truly believed he was 'the law'. Even if she wanted to get out of this, she knew she was in too deep.*

After all, hadn't that dolt Caedmon, who never bothered to introduce himself (Eltan commented on him later, further darkening her suspicions), been spying on them? The second they departed the Iron Throne, he apprehended them:

"Hello there, friends, may I have a word? Relax, I am not here to hurt you. I know you've been attacked at almost every turn, but I am an ally true and sure."

That would be what an enemy would say, Hecharna thought bitterly; how could he know they were attacked at every turn? The fool continued to plead:

"You have no reason to trust me, but you also have no reason not to. Regardless, I am but a messenger. I was told by Scar to keep an eye on you, though you seem quite capable of taking care of yourselves. In any case, I think you would benefit from a visit with Scar or Duke Eltan."

She really did not like the feel of any of this; neither did the little hairs on the back of her neck as a chill far colder than the breeze swept down her spine.

* * *

***A/N: In an alternate world, Hecharna sought to end their contract:**

_Duke Eltan: I am glad to have you back. So, what have you learned so far?_

_Hecharna: We came here to tell you that we no longer wish to work for you._

_Duke Eltan: I'm sorry to hear that._

_Duke Eltan: Don't force me to do something that I'll regret. You already know too much to just let you go. You WILL die if you do not tell me what I want to know. You have no option here._

_(Canon dialogue) Choices:_

_1\. Stuff it up your butt, old man._

_2\. Sorry, we've been under a lot of pressure lately, and sometimes it affects your judgement._

Choice 1 results in a cut scene instakill.

…

* * *

They paused briefly High Hedge, which resulted in some awkwardness between Thalantyr and Melicamp. It came about as a result of a discussion between Edwin and Eldoth, Eldoth sneering at the robes Edwin wore as the train caught the dirt. Edwin in true Edwin style, drew himself up and declared that the enchantments from the ink he wore were far superior to any simple leather Eldoth could don (and his robes were far more stylish). This debate led to a greater discussion, and to settle the matter, and to investigate for herself, Hecharna had them see Thalantyr.

As much as the notion fascinated her, there was something inherently repulsive about allowing anyone so near her, let alone near her bared flesh. With or without a needle, the very idea of Edwin's smug self-superiority as he plied those beady, hungry eyes across her left her skin crawling; Xzar was even worse, and like Edwin, the Zhentarim sported tattoos of his own, although Edwin's were far less visible, probably on account of his vanity.

But it did beg the question: if she ever were to etch ink upon herself, what form would it take? Just runes, or runes hidden within art? But if so, what kind of art? The obvious would be a mephit and a nereid, to further bind them to her but somehow it just didn't sit well. There was also the location and that left her wincing. She certainly wasn't going to let Thalantyr near her. Even if the old mage was the better option out of the three (Eldoth wasn't even a consideration), Thalantyr hadn't stopped the gnolls from breaking into his home and killing Imoen. The mage's flesh golems stood by and did nothing. That made him complicit – so there was still a score there to settle. A fresh wave of grief washed over her, but a part of her acknowledged she needed to move forwards. Imoen might have found the idea of getting an enchanted tattoo fun, or she might have wrinkled her nose; it was hard to say, given her moods were like the shifting waves of the sea.

Skie certainly looked intrigued and daunted, then decided the whole conversation was silly. It was at that point Shar-Teel informed the girl: "Don't think yourself second to any man."

"Thank you. You're very kind." The duke's daughter returned.

Melicamp clucked at this point that he wanted an enchanted tattoo; his feathers were little match against steel. And so, she spoke with Thalantyr about it, and about the possible acquisition of further magical items: perhaps more wands, or something to summon more shields to her side…

The hedgewizard remarked something about 'maybe in Sigil' in regards to the magical tattoos, and Edwin sneered about the simple-mindedness of simians and went off on a ramble about how rare the components required for the inks were, how it took time and preparation on a scale that they could never hope to fathom, and something about pigments, powdering exotic parts of beasts, crushing gems, and some other nonsense that Hecharna had no patience for.

Of course she understood there would be components: there always were, for every spell. …Except for those she was able to draw upon from her inner reserves, the ones that followed the dreams, which was curious in and of itself. Perhaps she possessed a sorcerer's blood. At any rate, the suggestion of tattoo Melicamp irritated Thalantyr who was already in a sour mood and he bade them good day, promising he would 'keep his eyes open' for any magical trinkets that happened to pass his way, not that he expected any to.

That did beg another question that Hecharna had been turning over in the back of her mind: that lout in the Beregost Smithy; he always seemed to have coin on hand but from where? How much was he making? Perhaps he had been profiting off all those ankheg shells, and like a sap, she played straight into his hands. Maybe once she inherited the Iron Throne – something she hadn't given up on! – she would purchase smiths of her own and organise the breeding of ankhegs. Surely there had to be a market for it: the curing of hides, perhaps even softening them into clothing. What had that short-sighted fool in the Nashkel store wanted? Winter wolf hides? Perhaps she could farm those too. Wyverns, ankhegs, and winter wolves. 'Exotic wares at affordable prices'. Relatively affordable. For the nobility. Wouldn't that be something?

[…]

Staring back was the encasing curtain wall of Candlekeep, thicker and higher than the city wall of Baldur's Gate.

Again, Hecharna questioned her decision of companions. There was still time to turn back, or to send Shar-Teel for reinforcements. She seriously considered leaving Garrick behind at the store but the young bard had an insistence about him; he had determined to be her chronicler and would go wherever she went. Hecharna suspected it was far more about the young bard gushing all over Skie, who seemed to phase between indifferent, unaware, flattered and charmed by it. Of course, Skie would not go anywhere without Eldoth – yet; Hecharna still needed to break that reliance, but that would come in time. Having Kagain at her side when she confronted Rieltar would have reassured her, and taking Branwen and Xzar would have provided much more muscle if it came to a fight but a part of her recognised that if things went awry she would have been left with nothing. She could only secure Branwen's loyalty so far, and she needed Xzar for other things. Taking Kivan would have been useful except… had all of them marched up to the gates, she had no doubt they would not have been permitted entry.

Xzar was too unstable for one; his antics would have broken the strict rules of the keep within the hour. Branwen was an unknown entity; it was hard to say if she would have issued some sort of declaration. If she knew she could have commanded obedience then she would have taken Xzar, Branwen, Edwin, Kagain and Shar-Teel, and herself of course. That, and if she could have somehow disguised the fact that there was a callous, hard-bittenness about them. Having Kivan await them beyond Candlkeep's walls in case they required a swift exit was the smart thing to do; that was why she left Shoal in the shop. If it came to it, she would have Branwen, Kagain, Kivan and Xzar mount a rescue.

As it was, Eldoth was so insufferably smug no one would give him a second glance; there was something so smarmy that men and women both seemed to despise him if they didn't fall for his oily manner. Edwin was the epitome of an arrogant scholar, so he would fit in without a second glance; moonstruck Garrick was too busy swooning and singing sagas for anyone to bat an eyelid and the wide-eyed Skie made a natural companion for Hecharna. Shar-Teel was the only issue but having one bodyguard would hardly draw too many eyebrows; and Kivan was needed outside. Kagain was just too mopey for the role. That, and she really didn't need him and Reevor swapping tales over a tankard.

The thought occurred that perhaps they could have all ventured forth, the more seasoned amongst them quaffing potions of invisibility as they approached the causeway to the gatehouse but Candlekeep was warded against many enchantments. There were alarms set if anyone tried to scale the walls. No, she had to go as she was and hope that she didn't lose Skie or Garrick when the time came to approach Rieltar. She would need to be smart about that as well; if he was staying in the Candlekeep Inn, it would get messy quickly. There wasn't enough room to manoeuvre and the man would have brought guards.

When the time came, she would have Garrick and Skie explore the library, set him off in one corner. She needed to find Gorion's hidden cache, if there was one, and Edwin would be happy enough tucked away with the bookshelves. That just left Shar-Teel at the tavern and Eldoth making a nuisance of himself to anyone within sight. Perhaps she could pour a paralysis poison into Rieltar's wine but surely he would have enchantments against such things. No one rose to leadership – albeit regional – of a powerful merchant cartel without some precautions, surely?

Perhaps the best thing to do was merely scout. Judge the lay of the land, infiltrate and gather information, and then make a decision. All she needed to do was find out what Rieltar and the Knights of the Shield or whatever they were called were meeting about and report back to Eltan after all. There was always another day to avenge herself for Gorion and Imoen. She hadn't survived this long by playing it dumb.

[…]


	31. Chapter 7, part 2

**Chapter 7, part 2 - A Most Unwelcome Reception**

It seemed that clothing did indeed make the man, or the woman, in her case, Hecharna thought bitterly. There were several surprised glances as she strode through the door, leaving an all but salivating Edwin to linger over the silly tome Eltan handed them as the entry fee into Candlekeep.

Maybe it was the dirt in her hair, braided, courtesy of Branwen, who had also braided Skie's in the exact same style. Despite herself, their looks made her grateful for her afternoon outing with Skie back in the Gate, though it was not an experience she would soon repeat given a choice. Measured and trussed with various banded cords, pinched by the seamstresses, enduring their tuts and nearly stabbed with pins, fitted for boots and the comments… Nine Hells, the comments. It had taken a whole tankard of firewine to rid herself of their stupidity. But it was over. No bag of holding though, even after searching high and low and asking at Sorcerous Sundries.

That day, Eldoth and Edwin had slipped away, probably to the Undercellar, leaving with Garrick with Melicamp, Dusty with Shoal (the two barely tolerating each other with a near equal aloofness; Shoal was even haughtier than Edwin, though far less vocal); and Shar-Teel was left to her own devices with but one stipulation: don't make trouble, or, in other words 'be better than a man', so naturally, she had assigned herself as their bodyguard. That same sense of Shar-Teel, their overbearing shadow, crept along the little hairs down her neck. The warrioress stood tall, proud, and leered, if such a thing were possible, with an expression of utter disgust, the contempt all but dripping from her, just as Eldoth's boredom oozed from him.

Straight to Winthrop's it was, though it galled at her.

[…]

Much as she didn't want to admit it, everything was almost exactly how she'd left it. Everything that was, except Imoen and Gorion. The sun still shone, but somehow… everything felt smaller, as if she had tripled in girth and height, almost like viewing a child's toys once so large but now negligible. Now she set foot in the grounds, she felt like an intruder rather than an outsider, as if somehow, she was a violation of the space.

It was an opportunity to pay her respects to Oghma, to visit the shrines, but something held her back. It was what that creature in the sewer claimed, that she was cursed by the gods. There was something that just stuck; it hurt. No, she had other things she needed first: like a bath, and to hear the gossip about Rieltar's little retinue. Gathering information – and then entering the library itself. Arming herself with knowledge was surely something Oghma would smile upon?

[…]

Winthrop was as fat as ever, a huge, hulking, quivering tub o' lard of a man, warty, sweaty beneath the rolls of blubber, with a stained apron that was worse than Eldoth's rancid breath: at least Eldoth tried to mask his scent with musk and other prominent odours. Edwin's own overly perfumed self, a constant source of rivalry between the pair, was equally overpowering, and yet, she could still feel her stomach churning at Winthrop. What was it about him that she hated so much, she asked herself? He was nothing to her now. Only, those eye sockets seemed more sunken, his face more sallow, and whatever mirth once gripped him was lost.

Imoen was the sort to have written to him, Hecharna realised with a start. As her shields lounged, Skie entranced by the quaintness of it all, Garrick by the romance and wonder at the prospect of so many books and the rose gardens, Eldoth sliding against the bar, somewhat like a mustard jelly might, Hecharna decided, making a mental note to plant the seed in Garrick for the next segment of his saga; Edwin sniffing and shaking out his robes, much like a lady did with her dress; Shar-Teel standing cold and bolt upright, Hecharna decided that this time, she would be the one to take charge, and finally prove that the dynamic in their relationship had changed. Winthrop would never threaten her with the back of his hand again.

Then again, Hecharna mused, she had only been eight at the time and dashing around at Imoen's behest, since the girl had stolen her book. Perhaps it was time to lay her childhood to rest. And so, she met Winthrop with a cool, even nod, her eyes locked on him. He'd want to know what happened, of course; maybe she might even tell him. Better than letting him suffer in the silence of never knowing – as Gorion had with her. Or… perhaps she'd have Garrick sing of the heroic and beautiful 'Lady Imoen', the dashing, daring tragedy. That might bring a bittersweet smile to the fat fool's face.

No, she reprimanded herself: there were actual foes now; Winthrop was meaningless and she was never going to waste another moment thinking or wondering about him. So she told him, straight, that Imoen had taken a gnoll halberd to the face and died in her arms, and she had buried her friend, laying her to rest. Monotone, she faced him, holding her chin high, unaware of the edging stream that spilt past her lids.

Slowly, as if he had expected nothing less, the innkeep nodded, his shoulders dropping, and turning, he lumbered towards the cellar, his step heavy. There was something about him that seemed tired, not just tired, broken, Hecharna realised, and knew if there had been any rivalry between them, it was over: she had won, but at what cost? There wasn't any resentment in his face, or his retreating back, and after the hatch shut, she was certain he would simply slump and weep, head in his hands.

Winthrop returned a few moments later, his reddened eyes a shadow of his former self, and with false joviality, asked them what their 'poison' was. It was too soon, much too soon, and even the innkeep seemed to have a bitter taste in his mouth.

During her tale, both Skie and Garrick had watched slack-jawed and horrified; Garrick shed tears openly, and Skie reached across from the barstool beside her and clung to her wrist. Garrick immediately began to compose a most heroic piece; Imoen would have liked that, Hecharna noted, bittersweetly. She turned with a smile to Skie. Ordering Imoen's favourite drink – something that sent a visible pang through Winthrop, she hoisted her tankard in silence, then downed it, and requested a room and a bath.

From the corner, Shar-Teel met her eye and nodded once. So she had won the warrioress' approval? It didn't matter one jot to her. Even Eldoth and Edwin were quiet, which was just as well, because the urge to inflict massive violence was steadily increasing in her.

[…]

The rooms were familiar as ever and smaller than she recalled. She didn't care. Tugging free her braid, she found Skie, who had tailed behind her in silence, slipping her arms around her; then those tears boiled over and she wept into her friend's hair. She didn't know how long they clung to each other, or really register that Skie sobbed too, only that they were there for each other, and by the end of it, her bath had grown cold. Which wasn't an issue, because of her magic: heating it to her temperature of choice, she dimly noted Skie relatching the door and stuffing a rag in the keyhole, snooping for peepholes – of which, Hecharna wordlessly pointed to, and then she shrugged herself out, with much tugging and under-her-breath swearing, of her armour and other garments. The boots proved the most fiddly but somehow she got them off.

Downstairs, Eldoth belched loud enough that it crept through the creaky floorboards; Skie wrinkled her nose, then giggled slightly. Hecharna shook her head, and heedless, slid her foot and leg into the steaming water. Skie dipped her finger in and danced back, eyes widening. With a gulp, the girl drew up a stool and pulled the curtain around the tub. The half elf simply lowered herself against the slippered back and closed her eyes. It wasn't exactly spacious but neither was it cramped.

Then she heard Skie speak her name; she waited for the girl to continue. When the duke's daughter didn't vocalise her thoughts, Hecharna simply ignored her and sank back. Then the sound of shed clothing collapsing on the floorboards pricked her ears, and she pulled her knees back as Skie clambered in.

Hecharna's eyebrow raised and Skie offered a small shrug, then hefted the soap dish. With a sigh, the half elf pivoted and allowed the girl to scrub her back and then her hair. Well if Skie wanted to play the role of maid, it was one less thing for her to do. …Except she'd have to return the favour. Still there was something nice about it, Hecharna decided, her arms splayed over the tub. The water was quickly becoming silty so she'd need to call for more. All this magic and she'd never learnt to summon water… her priorities were clearly skewed.

Finally clean, she loosed a breath and pondered over how the trek from Beregost hadn't taken that long but somehow she felt disgusting; maybe it was the weather, more humid than usual. Skie had let her be but now she knew the girl would want to hear about her childhood home, and hoped she would return the courtesy without expecting it; were it not for Imoen, Skie would have insisted Hecharna help her with her hair as she had before. This was the first time the girl had pressed so close to her; before there was always more than mere air and water between them.

When had things changed, the half elf silently asked as she gently but firmly took up Skie's arm and slathered it with soap. The duke's daughter really did have a dancer's physique, she thought with no small amount of envy. Long, limber limbs, a lithe frame with lean muscle, perfect poise and unselfconscious grace. Skie could have done her own hair with easy, but she seemed to enjoy Hecharna's ministrations as the half elf gathered it in her hands and ran the girl's brush through it over and over.

Then the girl, during a pause as Hecharna had awkwardly spoken about the many books, commented that she had a kink in her neck. What was she supposed to do about it, Hecharna's internal commentary demanded. So Skie's hand rose up and pinched at her own neck, then glanced over her shoulder.

"My feet hurt," Skie sighed.

Hecharna shrugged, then frowned; so did hers. Perhaps it was more of a wince and less of a frown, because Skie slid around in the tub, somehow managing to avoid knocking Hecharna in the chin with her knees, and snatched up the half elf's foot, almost knocking her backwards. "Like this." Skie confided, her thumbs pushing in, vowing once again they would visit a spa soon.

Hecharna realised she was actually whimpering and then sobbing as the girl's thumbs pushed in with a ruthlessness reserved only for Shar-Teel. Trying to yank away was useless; Skie was surprisingly strong-gripped, and then somehow, Skie had taken charge, ushering her facedown onto the bed, clad in all the towels Winthrop provided, with a vial that held what Hecharna presumed would be an awful stink but was actually incredibly delicate and sweet, and then she writhed. By the end of it, she was actually feeling better, which surprised her, and then it was her turn; Skie walked her through it and while she knew she botched it, Skie seemed to appreciate it, smiling as she bound up her hair.

At least they would face Rieltar with dignity, Hecharna decided, as they quit their room and began the winding descent down the creaky inn stairs.

[…]

Their transformation brought a gasp from Garrick, whose eyes were about to drop out and flop all over the floor, like that miner in Nashkel claimed his lungs were doing; Eldoth and Edwin shared an identical look that left her feeling sick in her stomach; Skie merely smiled and waved cheerfully. There was something about how their gazes lingered, how it travelled over them, how it settled on the skirt of her tunic, over her bust, that made her feel like a piece of meat, cattle at a market; Edwin was stroking his beard and muttering lower than usual, and Eldoth wore a smirk like no other she'd seen from him before. It extended over Skie's shoulder to her as well as to the duke's daughter. She was about to grab Skie's arm and yank her away from him when Shar-Teel stepped in front of them, her head cutting a crescent path as it went from Edwin to Eldoth with a look of black thunder; Hecharna felt a surge of instant gratitude towards the warrioress, even as Skie seemed confused by the abrupt taken-abackness of both of their goateed companions.

Garrick was spared such a look, and he happily waved back to Skie, despite her wave being for Eldoth. Winthrop, polishing a tankard at the bar with a less than clean rag, had a strange light in his eye, somewhat wistful, approving, but also …proud? There was a smile for Skie, and Hecharna understood that the man was thinking how well Imoen would have gotten along with her, how glad he was that she, Hecharna had made such a close friend. She felt the pressing need to leave.

It was only as she was over the threshold that she paused and kept herself from glancing back. That dream so long ago was right: there was no going back. Candlekeep was no longer home.

She hadn't asked Winthrop for news, she inwardly cursed, so instead, she forced herself to turn back with a smile and announced how she and Skie were going to tour the gardens; Garrick shot up with interest, and with a short laugh, Hecharna beckoned for him to follow, and met Shar-Teel's eye: she didn't need to have her keep her guard up.

"Have that dinner ready." The half elf warned Winthrop, as close to a reconciliation as she would ever get with the man. Despite the dusk having set in, there was a pleasantness to the dark that swallowed the grounds. It might not have been the best time to tour the gardens, but at the same time, it was peaceful, and all the lights from the keep – the candles, for which it was presumably named – enveloped the place in a warm glow. Distant waves crashed against the shore, the wind swept around the upper towers, and the smell of dinner, and Skie's perfume filled her nostrils.

She noted that even Eldoth and Edwin had bathed themselves in fresh sets of oil. How much did the pair douse themselves in? Their allowance would cost her a fortune at this rate… so perhaps it was as well she'd let her shields have the money from their most recent ankheg shells.

Garrick's soft song soon filled the air, and arm in arm, the two young women toured the gardens, and soon they came to the steps of the keep, Skie pausing before the pools. Hecharna remembered those pools and bitterness welled up in her. Once a horrible raven had tried to peck her as a child there; she still had that scar, or would have, had the potion of regeneration not removed it. Perhaps it was a waste but they had seven of them, now six and four-fifths.

She promised Skie, that one night after shopping, that if she ever got any scars, she could drink some too. Maybe it was vain and they'd really need the vile tasting potions later, but it was so nice to be rid of that horrid scar; it was less about looks, she told herself, and more about functionality: the skin just wasn't as supple, didn't stretch or yield properly. It was always straining and threatened to burst open, and true, it wasn't exactly pleasant to look at but what had Imoen once said? It lent character or something? Ever scar tells a story? She retorted in that case, she was happy for Imoen to fall out the hayloft and get a scar of her own, to which Imoen declined.

Besides, if a spa was going to be as painful as Skie's attempts at one, it might be worth the coin and the bitter aftertaste to simply down a potion of regeneration, or maybe buy enough to fill a small basin or barrel with.

She took a breath. She couldn't stall any longer. With a small smile, she crooked her finger to Garrick and placed another on her lips. "Want to see inside?"

The pair's excitement was like that of children.

"But it's a library so you have to be quiet," She reminded them. Garrick's face fell, but both he and Skie were so earnest it was almost laughable. So she took both of them by the wrist and hand, respectively, and releasing Garrick momentarily, opened the great door and crept inside, a part of her reminding her that she should have her head high.

[…]

Their gasp was more audible than back in the tavern. Marble clad halls and an entrance foyer bearing a giant statue of Alaundo, the keep's supposed founder. Glistening candlelight reflected off the smooth, white surfaces, and behind the statue were the rows upon rows of shelves.

"It's bigger than the ducal palace," Skie breathed. Hecharna nodded absently, her eyes scanning for signs of the monks. The library was always open, though sometimes it was quieter than others; right now, there were a few less people on account of dinner, but it was precisely because of that that some chose to study.

"Let's go," Hecharna murmured, turning and holding Garrick's eye. "Say nothing. Not one word. Follow my lead and obey everything I say." There wasn't a need for an 'understood'-'or else'. The young bard nodded with that same earnest gulp. He would be a necessary distraction if it came to it, Hecharna decided, if only because he would trip up over his words and that would be enough for her and Skie to slip to where they needed to be.

"So," Hecharna smiled at the pair, "Want to see my old room?"

Delight greeted her, and then guilty side-glances as they remembered where they were. It really was like an expedition of children…

[…]

Somehow, they were able to evade the various monks and other visitors, mostly on account of Hecharna knowing exactly which paths between the shelves to take, when to move and when to pause, peeking out and then raising a book when someone walked by. It was a game she had played her entire life with Imoen: the 'not get caught' and 'pretend to look busy'. She was never a dab hand at it, but Skie picked on so swiftly that she vastly outdid anything Hecharna managed. Skie and Imoen would have been impossible to deal with had they grown up together, the half elf noted ruefully, but it was to her advantage Skie was so deft at it.

They left Garrick outside Gorion's old room near a bookshelf, to 'keep watch'. Skie allowed her a moment, waiting at the entrance and steeling herself, Hecharna slipped inside.

[…]

Damn him. Was it so much to ask to be a lost heir of the Iron Throne? Why did she have to be proven right? How many others recognised her divine lineage? Just about every tenth person, it felt like!

As she suspected, there was a cache, and with it, a letter addressed to her. While she battled to compose herself, she stared out of the little old window, its familiar iron bands and arched top, the smooth and pitted stone wall, and then she turned to her own little nook, an alcove. Her throat caught.

For so many years, that had been her home, her bed, her sanctuary. How many tears had she shed into that pillow until she was old enough not to shed any at all? She had woken to her first monthly there, terrifying her despite that old bat Phlydia's warnings, her sheets and thighs stained with what became routine. How often she hid in that bed, hoped, dreamt, wondered at what her mother was like, allowed herself to believe in Gorion's stupid tales until she realised how hollow they rang. For so long that bed was home… until it wasn't.

She doubted she'd ever have had her first love in it, just as she never had her first kiss in the rose gardens; she'd come to accept that it wouldn't happen for her and at the same time, she decided she didn't want it. Now… now it was impossible. Ulraunt was right; she was a monster. The Keeper of the Tomes, Candlekeep's master, had always held an edge of contempt towards her and now she understood why. He was there that day, when the raven landed on her and pecked her.

Imoen japed about 'haylofts' and winked, and for a while that had gone over her head; Imoen also giggled about Hull, but it was never more than a passing fancy, her friend assured her when she looked so horrified, so stupefied, it was as though Imoen had cast an invocation. It was all meaningless talk. Imoen was so certain of a bright future, her whole life ahead of her, to love and dream, with heartache and joy, to just… live. But Hecharna had only ever existed, survived, and this letter, this horrifying truth, if it were real, confirmed everything she already knew, already felt, everything that had always been there. She was a monster. It wasn't just her crooked teeth, her disjointed nose, that odd misplaced freckle, that horribly half-formed dimple, not like Skie's perfect dimples on her face and lower back; it was her very nature. Suddenly, inwardly measuring the greater girth of Imoen's bust against her own, or the similar size of Skie's to her own, their hips, legs, noses, lips, hands, even their toes, and how pretty both humans' hair was, no longer held any meaning. She was a mockery, a facsimile of a dead god.

Something inside her broke. It had long resisted, but had bent and boughed, creaking but nevertheless held the dam back: its name was 'hope'; the hope that maybe she might overcome her flaws, her limitations, even her character, become something that wasn't just desirable or liked, but something that she could respect, something that didn't need the validation of others. Something that wasn't sneered at or spat on, despised or in fear that she might have to become a slattern just to eat. Even if one day she might hope for children (something she never had but always wondered if she might), that was impossible now. She _was_ cursed by the gods.

She wanted to scream; instead, she clenched the note in her hand, the fire in her eyes raising the darkness from her innermost depths. Her whole body quivered, her muscles taut, locking, almost in spasm, and the rage gripped her. Not the rage of cussing, nor the heat that drove passion, but the icy silence that forged the most terrible of wraths.

Then the spell was broken by a soft, quiet hand on her shoulder, the concerned face of her dear friend, the duke's daughter coming into view in her periphery. Those eyes, warm, disquieted, and feeling for her, looked towards the letter and waited.

She wasn't going to tell her; wasn't going to tell anyone. But she didn't stop the slow slide of Skie's hand down her arm, didn't stop her gently, ever so gently opening her hand, of stepping closer to her, her body against her own, her chin above the half elf's shoulder as she smoothed and viewed Gorion's hand…

Then those same arms enfolded her and the girl's mouth pressed against her cheek, cradling her in a different kind of silence to the ice. The concern remained but it shifted, as if Skie was taking it all in, considering what it meant, weighing it against who she knew her friend was… what she was… but just as Hecharna knew there would be from Imoen, there was no rejection. Calmly, Skie instructed Hecharna to use her spells to glean more from the letter; she did and there was nothing. Then nodding, almost to herself, Skie walked over, dropped to her hunches, picked up and sprinkled a handful of ash from the long dead fireplace, and checked it for hidden inks that might have resisted the scrying. Then she set the letter in the brazier and guided Hecharna's hands to it.

The flames shot from her fingers under Skie's direction, consuming the letter and its truth. The duke's daughter placed her hands on the half elf's shoulders, squared her, and met her empty stare with a promise. Then she pressed against her.

"You don't understand," Hecharna finally found her voice, quaking as though from a distant place, her gaze somewhere else. "You don't know… I was the one who found your brother."

"I know." Leaning back, Skie smoothed the half elf's cheek, "I remember. I thought I dreamt it. I heard you."

"You were asleep!" Hecharna accused.

"I was… but I remembered. I was so confused but I realised it had to be true. I was dreaming what you spoke." She offered a half shrug and a small smile. "I didn't know how to thank you."

She stared.

"You stopped him coming back as a revenant. If we had to kill him…" Her head hung. "My poor brother…" Her own tears gathered, but she shook them away. "You're not a monster."

"You sound like Imoen," The bitterness couldn't be masked.

Skie laughed lightly, taking it as a compliment. "Come on," she took her friend's hand, then gave an insistent tug. "We're here for Rieltar, remember?" She lowered her voice for that, then added with a backwards glance, "Unless there's something else for you here?"

Hecharna shook her head, then glanced back at her bed. "I guess… I guess it's fitting I'd find it up there." She pointed to the loosened stone in the wall behind the bed-board, a stone that only she knew of, or so she thought. Then she released a long exhale. "I always thought… this bed… this was my home."

Skie nodded, then squeezed her waist. "Come on."

Hecharna nodded, then hardened. Rieltar had a great deal to answer for. And now she knew what she was, there was no longer any reason to hold back. Did Alaundo not foresee that she and her kind would sow chaos in their wake? There would be a reckoning: Rieltar and his stupid lackeys, his absurd armour, should have left her alone. Sarevok might be the 'worst danger', but he was just another cog in the great machine that made up the Iron Throne. Even in his final letter, Gorion was patronising towards her, distant, cold; it was always about him, and that letter reflected it. Was he not aware she knew the prophecies, had studied them? Or was it just a 'reminder'?

Well her mind was made up. _Goodbye, Gorion_, she thought, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and gripping Skie's hand, took one step, then another. First she would find Rieltar, and once he was distracted, they'd go through his room and set a trap for him.

[…]

* * *

_Hello, Hecharna_

_If you are reading this, it means I have met an untimely death. I would tell you not to grieve for me, but I feel much better thinking that you would. There are things I must tell you in this letter that I might have told you before. However, if my death came too soon, then I would have never been given the chance. First off, I am not your biological father, for that distinction lies with an entity known as Bhaal. The Bhaal that I speak of is the one you know of as a divinity. In the crisis known as the Time of Troubles, when the gods walked Faerûn, Bhaal was also forced into a mortal shell. He was somehow forewarned of the death that awaited him during this time. For reasons unknown to me, he sought out women of every race and forced himself upon them. Your mother was one of those women, and as you know, she died in childbirth. I had been her friend and, on occasion, lover. I felt obligated to raise you as my own. I have always thought of you as my child, and I hope you still think of me as your father. You are a special child. The blood of the gods runs through your veins. If you make use of our extensive library, you will find that our founder, Alaundo, has many prophecies concerning the coming of the spawn of Bhaal. There are many who will want to use you for their own purposes. One, a man who calls himself Sarevok, is the worst danger. He has studied here at Candlekeep and thus knows a great deal about your history and who you are._

_Gorion_

* * *

_[Prophecy found in library] The spawn of the Lord of Murder are fated to come into their inheritance through bloodshed and misery. It is the hope of their father that only one shall remain alive to inherit his legacy. I foresee that the children of Bhaal shall kill each other in a bloody massacre._

* * *

_[Prophecy found in library book] During the days of the Avatars, the Lord of Murder will spawn a score of mortal progeny. These offspring will be aligned good and evil, but chaos will flow through them all. When the Beast's bastard children come of age, they will bring havoc to the lands of the Sword Coast. One of these children must rise above the rest and claim their father's legacy. This inheritor will shape the history of the Sword Coast for centuries to come._

* * *

[…]


	32. Chapter 7, part 3

**Chapter 7, part 3**

"Ah, I thought I might find you somewhere around here. Allow me to introduce myself…"

A man broke the library's silence, his voice deep but mellow. His arms were thick, strong; his shoulders broad, and there was something about his face… his hair was dark with a slight silver sheen to it, much like her own, and he seemed as fair as she was.

But how to respond? To follow this to its source or beg off, pleading research? No, knowledge was power. Knowledge would arm her, guard her, and be her guide: from that, she would draw her strength. And yet… how to achieve that knowledge? She couldn't appear too eager: that was Eldoth's undoing, amongst others. She had to bait the trap.

"There is some… research that I am currently working on that demands my attention." Hecharna met him stare for stare.

"Research…" Said he, "Well, indeed, that makes two of us and I think I might know what you're looking for. Will you let me be of some small assistance?"

There it was. The next step in this dance: "Tell me, what exactly is it that I am looking for?"

"You are looking for truth, as are we all… My name is Koveras. I used to work for your father, running messages to his Harper friends in Waterdeep. Before he passed on, he entrusted this ring to me and asked that I should give it to you should evil ever befall him… Will you take it?"

Harpers? That was news to her but it explained much, assuming this man wasn't lying. Funny how Gorion never mentioned this in his letter, but then again, Gorion never mentioned much of anything. Yet…

"And what evil befell him, Koveras?" She kept her voice neutral, her hands by her sides, her shoulders tensing.

"You were there. You saw it all. A woman, an armoured figure, two ogres wielding clubs, and two archers. But Gorion's petty magic was of little use against them, was it not? And you, you fled with your tail between your legs, hiding amidst the trees until dawn broke. And now it comes full circle, doesn't it? The Iron Throne so close that you can almost touch them and wreak your revenge for that night."

An exact account. Too exact. Her, Gorion, and six others. She would have to play this through to the end, not arousing suspicion. Why did this Koveras want her to have this ring? Was it cursed? Could it be used to track them?

The contempt in those words… it cut into her, biting. He was right: Gorion's magics were of little use. The ogres fell but the woman and the armoured man did not. A sick, sinking feel sat deep in the pit of her belly. She knew, she just didn't want to admit it. Her foe had just overplayed his hand… would she overplay hers? Looking for truth… the truth was she had just locked eyes with the wearer of that armour. Who else could it be? Unless there was a seventh foe there, veiled from sight? No.

"You know me well, Koveras, and my father, too. Give me that ring and let me find my vengeance."

"Wear it with your father's pride about you, then. Before you go, listen to me well. The leaders of the Iron Throne are here in the keep even as we speak. They are at their weakest and most unprotected… if you ever hope to kill them, now is the time. Now go, the Iron Throne awaits you."

[...]

As his footfall faded, she found herself reflecting back on Koveras' words, then his voice… She had heard it before. She knew that voice more deeply than any scar given to her since leaving Candlekeep. Without fully being aware of it, she descended the stairs and headed towards her old room, her companions in tow.

Why was Koveras trying to have her slay Rieltar? Who was he to Rieltar? What did Koveras know of her revenge, and why?

She sounded his name out and frowned. "Skie, say that man's name for me again."

"Koveras."

"Ko-ver-as. Kov-e-ras. Ras." She waved at Garrick to hush him, but then the bard frowned at the mirror Hecharna was staring into.

"When you reverse it…" He exclaimed.

"Sar-e-vok." The trio shared a grim look.

"We've got to–"

"Proceed," Hecharna snarled between gritted teeth, her fingers digging into Skie's bracered forearm. "Of course it's a trap. You saw that letter: Sarevok promised he wouldn't be here. So why is he here? This is a coup and we're the instruments of it, just like we're Eltan's pawns." She swore to herself. "So we tell Rieltar. We tell him that Sarevok's here. It's clear Sarevok wants to take the leadership of the Iron Throne for himself."

Skie's eyes widened and then she frowned, nodding.

"But won't that…"

"I know. We don't have any proof. Or we just don't tell him and just find the evidence we need and get out of here. Only…" She drew her gloved finger along the mirror, a nasty squeak biting at their ears, "Doppelgängers. They used them in the Seven Suns. If Sarevok wanted to frame us… he knows my face. He was there that night. It had to be him. Sarevok was the one who slew Gorion."

Skie's arm snaked around Hecharna's, and Garrick's hand reached for her shoulder, his eyes grieved and anguished.

"I guess the old man was right after all… We'll have to kill him." The last was something she barely dared admit but its inevitably sank in her like a stone off the tallest tower into the deep sea below. "I don't know how," She shut down the expected objections; none were forthcoming. Should she tell the others? "Promise me to keep it secret."

The pair pinkie swore.

It was as binding as a geas.

"Let's see if we can't charm Rieltar, hmm?" She forced a smile, wondering how she would ever manage to get close enough to Sarevok to kill him. Weapons were forbidden in the library and he could easily crush her throat without anyone being any the wiser. Why had the towering giant of a man not tried to choke the life out of her then and there? Unless she was his puppet and he intended to end her later?

[…]

Two cups of Arabellan Dry Wine over dinner, and an antidote, Hull's favourite trick, his 'cure all' for hangovers, saw them back in the inn, then off to bed. Outside, the thunderstorm and rain pounded against the walls and roofs of the keep and its exterior buildings. Beneath them, the soft merriment continued, Eldoth and Edwin getting deeper and deeper into the cups by the fireside, as was their way.

As Hecharna lay in Winthrop's finest linens, not too far from the room she had first summoned Dusty in, she allowed her eyes to close and tried not to think too much about things. Shar-Teel stood guard and everyone would take it in shifts. Wards were placed and they should be, she hoped, safe enough here.

Maybe there were doppelgängers here, maybe not; if so, there was little she could do about it beyond cut them down where she found them. If she could take one alive, perhaps she could charm it, but so far, there was little evidence of their presence, only that hunch she was once again, being set up. All she could envision was the noose that awaited her, of her piss running down her thighs and her bowels voiding as she dangled, kicking uselessly, her wrists bound, her face bloating as the blackness of the bag pressed against her mouth, the sackcloth coarse and scratchy; the slow strangulation of the rope as it bit into her throat, panic setting in as she thrashed, helpless, until finally, she could kick no more. There would never be a clean drop for her, she knew; the noose would lift her high into the air.

Before that, the guards would ravage her and inflict unspeakable indignities upon her person; no one would care. They would torment her and beat her within an inch of her life, then shove healing potions down her throat and do it all over again until they tired of their fun. She once overheard one of the Flaming Fist japing with his colleague if a potion of regeneration regenerated _everything_ that was broken in a woman. That snippet had made her feel sick.

Maybe it wouldn't be the noose, a part of her whispered; maybe it would be the pyre. Only this time, she would feel the flames creep up to her feet, boiling – she forced herself to stop, pinching herself sharply. The horrific images subsided. Even if it was a trap, she would find a way out of it: she had to. They had plenty of potions; there would be those who attempted to scry on them, but she had that dwarf's cloak, from the Jovial Juggler, whatever his name was. It should shield her from scrying. But what about Skie? No, Skie was the daughter of Duke Entar Silvershield; she should be safe. The rest of them… they would just have to take Rieltar alive and get out of there, somehow. As long as Rieltar was alive, they wouldn't hang, provided of course the doppelgängers hadn't infiltrated the Flaming Fist, or taken on the guise of the Grand Dukes.

…Could Eltan be a doppelgänger?

Maybe the best thing to do would be simply to run. Run as far away as she could, taking Garrick, Skie, Shar-Teel and Kivan with her. Kagain too, if he'd come. Edwin, if he'd join them. Travel quickly, lightly, and just leave. Even if Sarevok had cut down Gorion, maybe he wouldn't catch her. He might try to pursue her with his unimaginable resources, but there had to be isolated places she could go, ruins she could hide in. Ruins where she could regroup, perhaps master her skill with the Art, harness the Weave. For that, she might need Edwin as a teacher.

But that didn't sit well with her. It didn't sit well at all. Running away just left her feeling sick. All her life she had fled; no, she should choose to strike, like a surgeon's scalpel. She just had to be smart about it. For now, she should assume Eltan was a doppelgänger, assume everyone in authority was compromised. Even if they weren't, and weren't in the Iron Throne's pocket, it didn't make them allies.

If she wasn't the lost heir to the Iron Throne, she should have no scruples about bringing it down. If she couldn't claim it, she surely should destroy it. Perhaps she should journey back and sink that mine, now she knew the truth. But a part of her still held out hope that maybe, just maybe, she could profit from the Iron Crisis. Once this Bhaal get who was hunting her was slain, there was no reason she could not assume the mantel of the Iron Throne, somehow.

_Kozah a plet 'dar cass toglah!_

* * *

_You close your eyes tonight, and Candlekeep winds its way into your dreams. With a flash of memory, you are a runt of a child once more, Gorion dragging you through the gates of the citadel. Aged as he ever was, you still have to run to keep up with him. He has an important meeting with Ulraunt, the Keeper of the Tomes: an important meeting about you. Funny, you don't remember it._

_As you stand outside the doors of the inner keep, you can hear shouting from within. Gorion is uncharacteristically loud and seems quite irate. You don't know why he bothers, really. No one seems to want the two of you around._

_As you trace patterns in the water of a fountain, a reflection distracts you from the argument. A large raven has perched atop a stone wall and stares directly at you with huge black eyes. You stare back through the mirror of the water and are suddenly afraid to meet the bird's gaze any other way. It has claws for feet. You think to yourself: little skeletal claws._

_The doors of the keep suddenly swing open, and Ulraunt storms you. He glances at you for a moment, but looks away as he speaks. "You both can stay," he sneers, "but mark my words. That child will be the death of you."_

_A flash of memory once more, and Gorion walks out of the keep as he is today: dead. You drop your gaze back to the water so as not to see. The raven is gone, but your own image remains. Your eyes are black, like those of a bird._

_"Like father, like child," the reflection says._

_You wake with a yell, predictably unrested._

With that yell, Skie's eyes snapped open and she turned to Hecharna almost instantly. The Bhaalspawn waved her down, sweat streaming through her thin nightshirt. Tomorrow, they would take on Rieltar.

Sarevok had likely fled after meeting her but that was his undoing: meeting her face to face. Perhaps he was veiled by magics, perhaps not. Such arrogance, such pride, such contempt. If he had not taken flight, tomorrow, she would find him in Candlekeep and strike him down. If he had, they would meet another day. One thing at a time: Rieltar Anchev first.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Also, while the party reputation was 'popular' and gave this version of the dream (see below), I felt the 'low reputation' dream fit Hecharna more thematically, although she can keep Draw Upon Holy Might – from this dream:**

**_You close your eyes tonight, and visions of Candlekeep swim into view. As you pass through the gates of the citadel, there is a flash of memory, and you are a child of only a few seasons once more. At your side is Gorion, grey-haired even all those years ago. How old must he have been to age so little in the time since?_**

**_Aged as he ever was, you still have to run to keep up with him. He has an important meeting with Ulraunt, the Keeper of the Tomes: an important meeting about you. Funny, you don't remember it._**

**_As you stand outside the doors of the inner keep, you can hear shouting from within. Gorion seldom raised his voice, though you do not care to listen to the "discussions" at your previous stops either._**

**I find the most interesting line of that dream to be 'at your previous stops'. More material for AUs!**

* * *

**Other little asides:**

**A random Watcher will state: I was in one of the great spires of the keep last night and saw the strangest sight. The horizon was aglow for a time, as though many a man carried torches in the distance. Usually there are only merchants on that path, though never at night. Bandits perhaps, but so many?**

**\- He will say this during the prologue too. I guess the watchers really are a 'useless bunch of sticks', as Charname may elect to say.**

**Charm the reader in the infirmary and he says:**

**_You know, I'm an aspiring writer. I just finished writing a story, based on one true fact! It follows the exploits of the great, but misunderstood, Drizzt Do'Urden. If you ever have time, I'll read you a few passages._**

**The Priest says:**

**_Good friend, would you like me to give you a sermon on the wisdom of Oghma? No, well perhaps another time._**

**Martha the Cook says:**

_**Only stuff I know about is cooking, baking, and how to run a kitchen.**_

**…Otherwise she just threatens you with: _"I don't like no snot-nosed brats causin' toruble here. You better scram, 'fore I give you a whippin'."_**

**The other cook says: _"I like to cook, but other than that, I don't know much."_**

**Also, amusingly enough, lightning struck the 'Voice of the East' during the thunderstorm.**

**There's also a diamond in the Candlekeep inn, which Hecharna wasn't aware of since she had things other than looting on her mind. Alas.**

* * *

Hecharna's current Bhaal-powers:

_Larloch's Minor Drain (x2)_

_Horror (x1)_

_Slow Poison (x1)_

_Draw Upon Holy Might (x1)_


	33. Epilogue

**A/N: WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGERS AHEAD.**

* * *

Chapter 7, part 4, Epilogue

That very next morning, Eldoth announced grandly in the common room, just out of earshot of Winthrop, who was in the cellars,"I've got in contact with one of Entar Silvershield's agents. Seems Dad is quite worried about his little girl. He's so worried that he's willing to pay good money to make sure no harm comes to her. Every two days, we're to go to the Blade and Stars and meet with someone named Elkart. Elkart will give us the ransom money, and we can be on our way."

She wasn't about to ask how, but refrained from sneering at him. So it seemed Skie hadn't informed him of their little revelation; good. How much to tell Eldoth, Edwin and Shar-Teel was something she'd not quite decided, but right now, they did not need to know. One thing was clear though: Eldoth was utterly pathetic. Skie needed to learn what kind of 'man' Eldoth was.

[…]

Over breakfast, Hecharna's mind wandered as it once had, as if the mere act of being back in Candlekeep, its familiar scents, sights, and Winthrop's repugniveness – even when the man wasn't there, encouraged her thoughts to drift along the many halls of the library shelves. It was almost as if she'd never left, except for the companions at her side. A part of her wondered what Kivan would have made of it all, but somehow she doubted the stoic elf would be impressed by the accumulated knowledge.

It struck her that the absurdly named elf, Firebead Elvenhair, was not in the inn, the rat-killing dwarf Reevor having finally found his way into the tavern.

Perhaps Kagain's shop could function as an inn? A fifth such place in Beregost… what would be their draw? Wyvern eggs, wyvern egg omellete, wyvern egg cake… the possibilities of farming seemed endless, except for the lifecycle of wyverns would swiftly be exceeded by the demand. Only, once the novelty wore off, the 'wyvern's egg inn' would surely fail. Still, it'd give the surly dwarf something to do and he certainly had the right temperament for it. A draw for the mercenaries too… and impossible to keep them in check. Maybe she could sell the hatchlings as pets for nobles. Now there was an idea… an idea doomed to fail but mad enough that if it became fashionable, it might just take off.

[...]

The stairs felt longer than they ever had, and with it the weight of what must be done. She ventured alone, having set her morning amusement aside.

Rieltar Anchev, the man himself, seated at the centre surrounded by his lackeys. Who else but her foe could he be, that poise, that dignity, those ruthless eyes and thinned lips, the sharp gaze. His finery was an afterthought; yes, this was him.

"The right people can afford to be rude, but this is not you. Leave now, before my irate companion Brunos lets his temper get ahead of his reason!"

Slowly, Hecharna drawled, leaning against the doorframe, unarmed, unarmoured, in the high necked gown Skie had made for her, one of a few; "You're the leaders of the Iron Throne." Statement, without feeling. "We're the ones who've caused you so much... trouble over the past few weeks."

"You've the...? And you're stupid enough to admit this? Well, my young friend, you may find safety within the library, but once you've left there will be no place for you to run." Said he.

"Koveras told us you were all but undefended here at the keep." She spread her hands, before re-folding them across her chest, one ankle across the other.

"Koveras! Who is Kove... of course. It seems I taught my son all too well. Well, my young pups, you've been used as dupes."

You don't say? Hecharna thought.

"Koveras does not want what's best for you, but rather what's best for him. Hmmm... well, you should stop your foolish prattle and get out of our conference room."

She flashed her toothiest smile, and executed a small bow, her arms spread wide. "We'll leave." She added with a wink, holding up Koveras' ring and turning it, "but don't think this is over."

"That's fine, little ones. I'm sure we can expect to see you in the future, if not in person then at least your heads."

She laughed lightly and backed out. She couldn't help herself; there was something oddly charming about the man, even likeable. Of course, she expected nothing else but threats, despite delivering news of the coup.

Her thoughts darkened and she retreated to a quiet bookcase.

[...]

It was only a matter of time before they came for her. Guards, doppelgangers, doppelganger guards. Candlekeep, once a sanctuary, was now a trap and she was caught in it. Deliberately, she quit the chamber and made for the stairs.

As soon as she was tucked safely behind a bookcase, she executed her plan: first the invisibility potion. It would not allow her to elude the scrying magics for long, not on its own, but she had that dwarf's cloak, the one imbued with arcane wards against scrying. She doubted it would be enough but it was a start.

Then she doubled back down the stairs and there, she waited and watched. It didn't take long. Her very likeness slid by, identical down to her crooked teeth, her disjointed nose complete with an old scar the regenerative potion had removed; "You again? Back for more?"

The not-Hecharna and her not-mooks drew steel.

...

Waiting at the scene of the slaughter was perhaps unwise, but the false-her did not bother to rifle through the slain. It was over quickly, with a savage efficiency that afforded little finesse and even less parrying. Rieltar was left until last, the opening barrage of wands leaving Rieltar's cohorts open to the sword thrusts. Forced to his knees, a garotte was set around Rieltar's throat, the air slowly held, his neck slowly crushed. She knew she could never unsee those bulging eyes, those clawing hands; finally, his hand fell limp, the stench of excrement wafting from his hose.

His end had lasted much longer than the others. After the garotte, his head was severed in one fell blow and left to roll and gush across the stone tiles.

Hecharna almost couldn't bring herself to approach; her legs were leaden, rooted so firmly to the ground that she might as well be a tree. Death did not usually bother her, but this... she had to keep from drawing her breath in. Beside her, she could feel the warmth of Sarevok, whose form had silently appeared, and with a dead, golden gaze, not even so much of a trace of satisfaction, he departed.

It took her a few more heartbeats, the false mooks trailing after Sarevok, shedding their forms for hooded scholarly monks.

It took all she had, but one foot followed the other, and then she was there, able to plunge her hand towards her foe's pockets.

...

Of course there was nothing of true value on him, no notes, no letters, loot, yes, but that was of no help. It would be a few more moments before the bodies were found, before the alarm was raised. She had planned for it, readied herself. It wasn't for failure but flight; to withdraw to a place of her choosing. Still her hands shook; her body trembled, her legs quaked and she almost emptied her stomach. In its pit, she felt a hollow emptiness, and the slow burn of bile. Retreating from the carnage, she quaffed another potion of invisibility, and instantly clutched her mouth; a second so soon after the first on an already queasy tummy? Sucking in a breath, she reminded herself of the consequences of her capture: her imminent execution, the violence and violation of her body and mind, the nature of her foe, of the Flaming Fist. She remembered the trio who accused them of banditry, who were prepared to string them from the nearest tree: not a swift, sharp fall but a slow, agonising death, like Rieltar. And why? Because they arbitrarily decided that she was not worth taking into custody, of being given a trial, of being taken to their commanding officer not an hour's march from the town boundary.

It was indicative of the Fist's collective character. She could almost feel their calloused hands, their rancid breath and acrid sweat bearing down upon her. Her clothes would be torn from her and she would be beaten bloody; bruised, battered, too weak to resist, she would be at their mercy until her trial, and then all night until her hanging or burning. If Sarevok could bring doppelgangers into the Seven Suns, into Candlekeep, bypassing the arcane wards, then the judges would be in his pocket or replaced. How could she contend with that? She had come here to confront her foe, but she had lost. Sarevok was always three steps ahead of her. He had engineered the perfect coup, written that she must die, taking a personal interest in her demise. He was the one in the armour that night. He had seen it all. Gorion had tried to warn her in his letter but she was too blinded by anger to see. Sarevok was like her, one of Bhaal's seed. The prophecy said one must rise up... how could it ever have been her? She never stood even the slightest chance; the acceptance that came with that acknowledgment wasn't despair but simple realisation, that she was simply outmatched, outclassed, and out-armed. Sarevok held all the cards and her friends were probably already dead.

Even if they weren't, the inn was undoubtedly compromised. If Skie and Garrick were able, they were to hide and slip away. That was the plan. Perhaps they wouldn't be noticed.

As to the others? Shar-Teel was smart but proud; she might make the rendezvous. Edwin... he was like a rat on a sinking ship; Eldoth too. Eldoth would betray them in a heartbeat, if he wasn't already in Sarevok's employ. Perhaps Sarevok would run him through; perhaps not.

Either way, she mustn't assume any of her friends' loyalty: any one of them could be replaced by a doppelganger and she'd be none the wiser, at least until the mirrorkin slipped up and by then it would be much, much too late. Even if they weren't doppelgangers, they might easily have been captured, tortured and forced into a geas. Aside from Dusty and her connection to Shoal, a connection she could no longer afford, she was alone.

Unsteadily, her fingers reached to fasten the concealed belt, its buckle hanging open beneath the long folds of her gown.

Hecharna winched, grinding her teeth. It felt like her bones were breaking, her hips expanding, bulging, their very structure twisting into unnatural and unwelcome proportions; her chest reverse heaved, as if sucking inward. Her muscles rebound themselves. It was over almost instantly and her first staggering step almost sent her careening into the wall. She tried very hard not to focus on the bulge between her thighs, the unwieldy weight and bizarre tenderness; it felt excessively sore, as if she had been turned inside out and her gusset, Shou silk, strained against the newfound... lump. She had grossly underestimated the change, merely assuming her attire was enough. Surely the male counterpart wasn't that different? Boys wore what they wore, she assumed. But she wasn't Imoen and she had never actually seen the male anatomy outside of sketches, lewd graffiti, and statues. What did a half elf boast in prowess and stature, she had thought. It wasn't enough to simply don their guise; she had to become, really become, taking a leaf from her doppelganger foes.

Beneath her gown was an extremely snug tunic, which now breathed just a little easier. Not that what she had before were ever remotely close to generous; she couldn't quite blot out the various remarks that even having come of age, a thirteen year old human, even a gnome, was better endowed than she. Imoen had always said it wasn't true, but Hecharna could never quite bring herself to believe her.

The hair was next, the braid severed beneath her belt knife, the dye, magical, a momento of her and Skie's shopping trip: strawberry blonde, more red than flaxen. It supposedly lacked all scent. A headband to cover the tips of her ears left her feeling more like a sailor than a scholar; her hood drawn up, and then... then the real pain: her crooked teeth. A balm a few seconds ahead of time helped numb her to the pliers; a few yanks and she straightened them, or at least moved them. The sip of the regeneration potion put a stop to the searing agony that abruptly burst past the balm; as it worked, she yanked and twisted until, she gingerly ran her fingertip along the path she'd chosen: it was as straight, as closed, as she was ever going to get it. She might be wasting precious time, but she had to be certain: Hecharna was dead. Instead of a half elf maiden, she - he - was a fourteen year old human boy, a stablehand.

...it was as well she'd had Garrick bury her mail and hammer, wrapped in canvas, of course, with the majority of her coffers, since her enemies knew her effects. To be dead, really dead, she couldn't be identified. Biting her lip, her fingernails slid towards the delicate pointed tips of her ears. The potion would reform them, but maybe they could be trained, like the rosebushes in the gardens. This was the worst part, the part she dreaded, feared, the most. There would be blood, pain, and the very thought made her want to pass out, her upturned tummy even queasier than before. But what choice did she have?

The knife split the tip in two, and gritting her teeth, she pulled each half back and pinned each with an earring, her fingers slick even as the potion did its work.

Somehow she didn't pass out; somehow she didn't lose control of her bladder; somehow, she remained on her feet.

Then the final touch: the herbal balm meant to bring colour to her pale, freckle-speckled face, to touch up her pre-regenerated blotchy skin near her eye. Then she remembered her nose. Closing her eyes, she once again grit her teeth, gripped and twisted with all her might. For a heartbeat, she was certain someone had heard the sickening crunches, first one then the other.

Tears stung her despite the potion. She wasn't even sure she could bring herself to, but her hands belonged to someone else, and the fear of certain death drove her to extremes she never thought possible. Of course she and her "accomplices" would be tortured, given to hot irons and worse; of course she would be placed upon the rack, inside the iron maiden, kept alive by healing magics. Every time she thought upon it, the dread terror grew as her mind conjured up more and more. The Cloakwood mines had such a chamber; she could not forget the horrors she spied there, the mass of flayed dead at thd hands of the ogre-mage, of Davaeron's personal chambers.

Even death was not a certain escape; a powerful enough priest could return an unwilling spirit, she was sure. She had no proof, but it would make sense. No, this was the only way. As a boy, she'd no doubt be given the belt over nothing as soon as she found a place to stay, but compared to what she'd already seen, that was nothing.

Had she not been gifted, or cursed, with her elven lineage, she would have quaffed potions of speed, as the idiotic sculptor Prism had, to increase her years, one for each potion, if she understood right. But what good would it do her? No, it was best to be a boy, try to apprentice somewhere, hide in plain sight, and get as far away from here as she could.

The only real choice left was whether or not to abandon Skie. There was only one belt. Dusty knew how to polymorph himself and possibly he could apply it to others, but such tricks could be revealed. But Skie might never abandon Eldoth...

She could decide later. First thing was first: timing her invisibility and getting out, and for that, she had Dusty; not as a giant bat, or wveryn, but as a giant spider, capable of cresting Candlekeep's walls and cliffs to the shore. There had to be coves and caves beyond what she'd spied as a child. She could test the limitations of her new form later; Dusty would do the heavy lifting for now, and once she bound herself to him, the rest was in his hands... claws. She'd need to discard her dress; a pang ran through her, and then she hardened. It was nice while it lasted, but nice was something she couldn't afford. She'd have to leave her gold as well, or as much of it that she couldn't conceal in her enchanted gem pouches. Perhaps she could buy her way into the Order of the Radiant Hart, but without a letter of introduction... perhaps not. Being a paladin wouldn't really suit her, which is why it was perfect. Skie had shared about her brother as they lay side by side that night, how proud he'd been to join the Order. But Hecharna couldn't afford to think of it right then, even if it had given her the idea of joining the Order.

Her proportions all feeling off, except for her arms that felt just as ropy as ever, she headed towards the nearest wide window, and pulled Dusty from her satchel. "Your turn," she hissed quietly, "and no backchat."

For once, the Mephit obeyed, and an invocation and an invisibility potion for Dusty later, she climbed on, wincing as her new anatomy, already forgotten, was crushed against her now-chittinous mount. Riding bareback was the least of her concerns, she reminded herself as she faced the abrupt and perilous drop hundreds of feet to the surf below. Now or never, Hecharna murmured inwardly, and nudged her steed before the potions wore off. It wasn't long before the chaffing began, the wind howling against her scarfed face, tugging at her hood and tunic, and the roar of the wsters below. Her arms clung tighter, praying the rope would hold as her innards twisted and her bowels clenched. With a sinking feeling, she knew she might never be able to return to her natural form, not whilst Sarevok still lived. Once again, he had taken everything except for her life; uncomfortable though it might be, she recognised she would need to adapt to her new body and quickly, along with everything that meant. Would her feelings change? Would she look at Skie differently? She already felt different, and not just the obvious, but inside, as though there was something present that wasn't there before. Perhaps it was the cause of the 'stupidity' in boys Imoen was always joking about, that secret essence that drove them to such absurd acts, braying peacocks desperately vying for attention.

Would she feel that u unquenchable urge to rut as well, then, or was it all just silliness on Imoen's part? It felt so alien, so unfamiliar and yet, she was already getting used to it, shifting ever so slightly against the chittin even as the gale whipped them.

...and if she was driven to mate, would she seek out her own kind or turn to other males? The question dogged her until she decided she really had no interest in it at all. While she had yet to even consider the mechanics, a part of her kept picturing Skie, and then wondering what Garrick looked like beneath his foppish suit. Is that how Edwin felt all the time, Eldoth? Garrick? Surely not Garrick. Kagain? Kivan? Well, Kivan was an elf, so probably not. She wondered at this need to see when it had never mattered before, then forced herself to focus on the present and the crashing waves below. There would be time to figure it out later, assuming they survived.

The question begged, however, where should she go? Into the cliff caves? North, skirting danger, south, towards and beyond Nashkel, where this whole folly had taken its second step; towards a ruin like Ulcaster or Durlag's Tower; somewhere else? Sneak into the Gate and buy passage on a ship, any ship?

There was one thing she wasn't doing: Sarevok may appear at his most vulnerable here, and on the road, unaware she knew his identity, but he was surrounded by his doppelgangers and possibly that priestess of his. No, what she needed was to stage her own death: a potion of fireball bundle in her room, six of them on a string. She'd left orders not to be disturbed under any circumstances. The last piece of her plan. Sorry Winthrop.

It would never be over, not until Sarevok Anchev was dead, but that didn't mean it was she who had to kill him. Revenge for a man she didn't love wasn't worth her life; she was done with killing to survive; she'd had her fill of 'adventuring'. Skie, Garrick and Melicamp were no longer her responsibility; like her, they would have to learn to stand up on their own: that was the true knowledge, and they would learn. As for Sarevok? The damnable piss-swilling Zhentish could take him out of the realms; she was done. It was over.

_Fin._

**A/N: so there you have it, dear readers, the Hecharna novelisation of Baldur's Gate 1. As it currently stands, my laptop fan is broken so writing more is going to be a tad tricky without the source material, however! The good news is that I actually penned five chapters of the next installment some time back. So i shall be uploading those now I know ff dot net will let me upload from my phone. **

**I hope you have enjoyed this little tale. It's been a blast, and I've greatly enjoyed writing around the core dialogue, despite taking a few creative liberties along the way. I've thoroughly enjoyed watching Hecharna grow and her losing companions, unscripted as I began this no reload run (to a point: that point being my own stupidity vs. staying in-character: she and her predecessors shouldn't be punished for my inattention at times), greatly shaped this piece as did her randomly rolled no-reroll stats. It's been a challenge, it's been fun, and it's important to know where to cut it off. So here it is, an end but not THE end. As a certain unmet half elf is fond of saying:**

**"Better part of valour, better part of valour!"**

**I hope to see you all for the second part of the "adventure". In the meantime, stay indoors, stay safe! (Not an April fools, despite being the first of April, 2020).**

\- Late to the Party.


	34. A Parting Word

A/N:

A final note:

In case anyone was wondering, the last chapter was drawn from references in the source canon.

These were:

\- the art of the bandit camp: flayed bodies

\- various torture devices in both BG1 and SoA, such as Nalia's keep.

\- the djinn and the drow: healed after being hurt

\- Irenicus' dryads to Imoen. The cowled wizard in Spellhold upon Imoen's arrival.

\- Xan's torture by Mulahey.

\- Kivan and his wife at the hands of Tazok

Some of this could be argued as simply drow, but Hecharna is in a world where such atrocities occur.

I felt the need to include this as not everyone might be aware of these and might think that Hecharna is being paranoid. She's not. Personally I prefer to ignore these elements in most playthroughs, most fics, but this time is a little different.

My deepest apologies if any of this is upsetting; rest assured I will not go into vivid detail in my descriptions. I shall be polishing and uploading the next part of Hecharna's journeys soon.

Thanks for reading!

And as a final note from our "heroine", who might have eloped with Diarmid the Sensible (alas it was not to be): "Kazoh! Kozah, KOZAH!" (To the voice in her dreams).


End file.
